Between The Stars
by Laurelindorenae
Summary: Darken Rahl was not always as he seems. There was a time when the man was different, but he has lost himself. Neither good or truly evil; the monarch whom the Midlands resisted. But that all came crashing down when 'she' came into his life...
1. Opening: The Last Battle

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Devya Rahl - she is the creation of my friend Amber. D'Hara, Confessors, and the Con Dar/Blood Rage are the creation of Mr. Terry Goodkind. I take absolutely NO credit for these things. I **DO **however own Oran Rahl, and the Witch Woman Zorya.

_** Opening: **_**The Last Battle**

_ A Time Beyond History's Reckoning._

_ Her whole body started to tremble. The quivering quickly progressed into full shudders, which swiftly advanced to near convulsions as it took hold of her. The Con Dar. The Blood Rage. It was brought on by the anger, and the worry for her fallen mate. Her sea blue-green eyes quickly filled with blood, turning her cat-like irises scarlet as her power stormed._

_The Mother Confessor, a warrior woman sworn to the task of finding the truth, no matter how hard it had been concealed, had taken on her last mission . Her suicide. To protect the one she love above all else. Her husband, her mate, the father of her newborn child. Oran Rahl. The young King of D'Hara._

_Oran laid unconscious nearby upon the battlefield. Forgotten for now by the enemy. His armour was filthy, heavy with mud, and drenched with the life blood of the Sorceress' forces. The leather and chain mail had protected him, but now it lay in cracked tatters and broken rings. The red and black leathers had been hacked at by enemy swords. Though for the most part it had done it's duty to protect the monarch. The leather collar he wore to shield his throat, neck, and clavicle, was deeply rutted where the enemy had tried unsuccessfully to slit his throat. The thick Mord'Sith collar had protected him. Given to him by the highest ranking woman of the Temple which shared it's roof with the Peoples Palace. The Mistress Neilina. His face was injured; a black eye quickly forming, which would mar his handsome face. About his head, like a dark halo, laid his hair upon the muddy ground. Strangely coloured for one of his nationality and his blood line, but still fitting of his visage. But his dignified nose was broken; knocked from it's place and disjointed. Yet if he had noticed it, he had paid it no attention. But than again, the Mother Confessor had been his concern._

_ But the Mother Confessor was pulsating with the flow of the Con Dar through her blood. It started in her heart where the love of her husband metaphorically resided. From her heart the ire rushed along her arteries with her blood; the Blood Rage. The Con Dar had taken hold of her body, mind, heart, soul, and power. Her han had reached it's peak. _

_ The sky, already dark with the smoke and gore of the battlefield, had lost further radiance. It had darkened. Taking on the essence of the eve at midnight. Only around the young woman, Devya, was an orb of illumination. Bluish light encasing her; a pocket of daylight amongst the shadows._

_ The enemy, the soldiers in the service of the Witch Woman Zorya, were still approaching. The fury of the Confessor Queen did not quench their desire to destroy the fallen D'Haran Lord and amalgamate his kingdom into that of their Queen. But the Confessor would not allow it. As the soldiers advanced, she finally screamed out. Her wrath ringing out like the rebound of a rifle. The atmosphere tore open; thunder without a sound. From Devya was sent out a shock wave of magic that struck at the soldiers. Bringing all the fifteen, that sought to circle the woman, to their knees. All uttering the same phrase at once, "Command us, Mother Confessor."_

_ Devya cried out once again, trying to release some of the power and her anger. The sound once again echoing out through the air. She turned her wild eyes upon each man in the semi-circle around her as she bared her teeth; breathing heavy snorts through her flared nostrils. "I command you to fight to the death in service of your King Oran Rahl!"_

_ The confessed soldiers each drew their weapons once more from the earth around them where they had fallen from their hands in the rapture of confession. Each growled, desperate to protect their Mistress and the object of her affections. The reason for her entrance into the Con Dar. They made it known to their former allies that they were in the service of D'Hara and not Zorya. _

_ The blood soon stained the battle-torn earth. Running in red rivulets towards the greater rivers and seeping seas of red. _

_ Devya was lost in her power; turning to look all around her. Still she panted and snorted, unable to lower to heart rate. Though, until she killed the one responsible for Oran's injuries (and this was not the soldier that had knocked him unconscious, but the Witch, Zorya, herself) she did not wish to leave her state of rushing strength. Finally her eyes fell upon her mate; Oran lay nearly dead. Pale and sweating profusely, his black eye was the least of his wounds. The sweat drenched his hair and cause the dark wisps around his face to cling to his high, proud, cheekbones. His cupid's bow lips were split from a blow that he had sustained while trying to protect the very woman who was now desperate to avenge him. She cried out at the mere sight of the Father Rahl as he lay on Death's doorstep. The wind whipped through her long hair, and tugged at her bloodied and dirtied white gown. Blowing her hair around her like a dark war banner as she pulled her shoulders back, holding her hands out to the side, and threw her head back. Crying to the heavens, where even the Creator should have been able to hear the anguish in her voice. _

_ Zorya was going to die. Even if was the last task that the Mother Confessor ever performed._


	2. Chapter One: Jayden

-1**Disclaimer: **Avalyn and Jayden are the creation of my friend Amber. Darken Rahl, and D'Hara, are the creations of Mr. Terry Goodkind. I take absolutely NO credit for these things. I **DO **however own Corey.

_** Chapter One: **_**Jayden**

_ Year 14 ACB._

The sun was streaming in through the wide open windows; the golden light falling over his lean form. Around his face fell his dark hair; the layered locks framing his austere features. Framing his azure eyes. He sat relaxed in the carved wooden throne; his back to the large fireplace. One leg was casually draped over the other beneath his crimson robes. His hands were resting over the arms of the throne leisurely as he leaned back slightly to the left in his placement. His head was tilted back to the right, correcting his gaze. The white marble of the Palace glittered all around him in the spring sunlight.

The young King smiled softly as the little boy was brought forward by his mother. They were a poor family, it was easy enough to see that much. The mother, though she had tried her best to clean herself up before her audience with the King, was still covered in earth from the farm. She had dressed herself and her son in the finest clothing that they could afford - yet the King could see that his lowest ranking servants had better wardrobes. Her young son, who looked to be no more than perhaps nine years old, was only slightly better. He too was covered in filth - he had probably been helping his mother in their fields for start of the planting season - and wore his best clothing. A white and blue lightweight wool tunic with old grey suede breeches a few sizes too big, and a pair of scuffed and worn old boots that looked to be antiques once belonging to his father. A father that, as Lord Rahl had just learned moments before, had been killed while defending his family against enemy raiders. It pulled at the strings of his good heart.

"Father Rahl.", the blond woman bowed her head as she curtsied to the Master in his throne. But when her son made no move to bow (in truth he was frozen in place with the shock of being before their King), she glared up at the young boy. "Jayden! You will bow before the Father Rahl!", she gripped the boy's arm tightly as she meant to pull him down to her bowed level.

Darken Rahl held up his hand as he uncrossed his leg from the other. He rose to his feet. "It's alright Avalyn.", he smiled as gently as he could while he approached the boy who was roughly fifteen years his junior.

Avalyn paused in her astonishment, but knew better than to question just what it was that was in the D'Haran Lord's mind.

"So this is the boy?", Rahl carried on. Pretending that he had not noticed her change of demeanour. "The boy who the good Sisters in Thandore would not take?", he looked down to Jayden; the boy cast his eyes down. Embarrassed and feeling as though he were utterly useless. Rahl smiled slightly, knowing the boy could see him in his peripheral vision, even if he chose to ignore the King. He looked once again to Avalyn.

The D'Haran woman nodded, "They said it would be a risk to take him in. What with the fires and all. Master Rahl, I love my son more than anything, especially now that his father, my dear Corey, is gone. But I cannot risk the blazes that he starts. I know he does not intend to do it, but we have so very little as it is that we cannot risk to lose the house as well."

The twenty four year old King lifted his left hand to his chin; briefly brushing his index finger over his slightly pouted bottom lip while he looked down his rose at the young Jayden.

"All I ask is you…", Avalyn paused as she weighed her options for a moment. Wondering what the best over all course of action would be for Jayden. There were a few, but one would not be done, and the other was a prison sentence for the boy. Finally she came to the only conclusion she at all had left. The only destination that she could arrive at. "Take his han. I cannot have my baby boy in a locked collar like a dog for the rest of his life."

Darken Rahl lifted his eyes from Jayden, and back to the child's mother. His eyes moved swiftly. His gaze was harsh. "Take his han?", he looked back to the boy.

Jayden was visibly frightened. He knew what "han" meant, but the removal of it he was not sure about. Unsure of how he would feel both during and after it. Would it hurt? The boy was trembling to some extent.

Rahl moved again, going back to his slow, leisurely, pace circling the mother and son. His silence seemed poisonous. But as he gazed upon the boy, he smiled placidly. "No. I have a better idea.", he looked into the peasant woman's eyes.

Avalyn grew tense, and rightly so. Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. She was afraid, when she finally spoke, of what his suggestion could be. "What is it my Lord?"

"Leave Jayden with me. I will train him as best I can, and when he is ready he can return home to you. I will personally escort him on that day if he so wishes."

Both mother, and child's, eyes grew wide. One with shock, the other in fear. "Father Rahl I could never ask you to do such a service. I was afraid enough to ask you to take my son's power.", Avalyn cast her eyes down to the floor; studying the gold capped black leather toes of the King's boots.

Jayden was quivering, "Please sir, I'll wear the collar-"

Rahl's eyes snapped to the boy temporarily, before turning back to the filthy blonde woman. "Avalyn, it is my wish. The boy needs training, you yourself know this or you would not have first taken him to the Sisters of the Light. I will teach him."

Avalyn was speechless, "Master I cannot afford to pay you for your generosity."

Darken Rahl shook his head. "I did not ask for payment, did I? it is my absolutely pleasure," he emphasized the last words of his statement as he looked deep into her eyes.

Ava could only nod, completely lost for words.

"You may leave the boy here today. His lessons will start tomorrow morning."

Jayden had started to whimper, even though he knew he was too old to do as such, and that in the eyes of the King he must seem like the snivelling, whimpering, maggot that was unthankful for the gift he was being offered. But he didn't care what Father Rahl though of him. He was too scared to outright bas, nay, beg his mother to take him home (at least too afraid to do so in front of Lord Rahl). "Mother…"

"Yes my Lord.", Ava turned her eyes back to the nine year old boy that she had brought with her. She smiled sorrowfully and her put her hands upon his face as she knelt before him. Rahl's left hand moved and laid upon the boy's left shoulder- pulling him slightly against the King's left him. But never hard enough to elicit pain from old wounds. "Jayden, this is for the best. Father Rahl can give you the education that I cannot. A better education of your power than even your father could have given you. Even he did not know the extent of his or your abilities. I cannot give you what Father Rahl can. Don't cry. I will see you again soon.", but Ava's own tears were building up and sparkling in her eyes as she stood too her feet once more.

Rahl, with his free right hand, reached out and touched the woman's dirty cheek. She immediately closed her eyes, revelling in the once-in-a-lifetime touch of the King. "Avalyn, no tears. Jayden will be safe here with me. He will be guarded day and night by the Palace guards and the Mord'Sith," he nodded his head to the two burgundy leather clad women who stood beside his throne. "He will want for nothing, I assure you."

Ava glanced to the two women, the Mord'Sith who were trained in torture, warily. But she nodded her understanding. She closed her eyes swiftly once more, and raised her hand. Laying it over Rahl's and pressing his hand a little more against her cheek while she turned her face and kissed her lips to his palm. "Thank you.", she opened her blue eyes once more.

Rahl smiled softly, and brushed his thumb over her cheek just under her eye; clearing away the tears that had fallen. "You are welcome."

Avalyn looked to Jayden - who was still shaking (all the more now that he was so close to the King and to saying goodbye to his mother). She leaned down and kissed his brow gently. "Be good."

"Yes mama…", the boy was entirely defeated; knowing he was to stay here with the powerful wizard of a King, while his mother left for their home village to the east once again.

Ava finally turned her back; her long golden hair held in a loose and fraying plait.

Silence ensued for many long moments once her form had left the throne room. Darken Rahl waited, drawing out the silence (which did nothing to assuage the boy's frazzled nerves) before he let go of the boy with a sudden jolt. He nearly knocked the boy off his balance. The King looked down his arrogant nose at the child.

Jayden could only swallow quietly in his fear…


	3. Chapter Two: We Are Not The Same

-1**Disclaimer: **Avalyn and Jayden are the creation of my friend Amber. Darken Rahl, and DHara, are the creations of Mr. Terry Goodkind. I take absolutely NO credit for these things. I **DO** however own Corey. 

_**Chapter Two: **_**We Are Not The Same**

Trembling, for Jayden, felt like such a juvenile reaction to his present situation. Yet in the darkness of the night that was sure to enshroud his life in the near future, it seemed like the only option. Trivial as though it may be. He kept his blue eyes down and away from the King before him. Terrified that if he were to make contact with those steely blue eyes that he might very well be turned to stone from flesh and blood. He had thought that he was too old now to believe in fairy tales, but now more than ever he wondered if each narrative had been told to lead him here. Here into the lions den. His grimy and stringy blonde hair fell into his eyes. It was neither short nor long. A shaggy mess of ratty curls. Presumably from his mother's side as Rahl could see the resemblance of her in the boy's features. Yet Darken Rahl could remember the boy's father, if only vaguely. 

Corey Wright was a farmer; from the small village of Grimsby, to the east of the Peoples Palace. He was tall, but only as tall as Father Rahl, who unlike other D'Harans, was not as vertically gifted. His eyes were blue, deep but kind and caring. Unlike other D'Hara men his hair was brown, but he wore it cropped in the same way as the rest of the male population. He was strong and brawny, with strength enough to defend his family no matter the cost to him. And so Corey, like most men of his age and his rank (which was nil) were once conscripted into the D'Haran army. The farmer had served, and fought, but had thankfully never seen a war. He was too young during the reign of Panis Rahl during the Great War, and under the rule of the successor, Darken Rahl, there had been no wars. There had been minor skirmishes of course, but these tended to rage between regions and were not D'Hara's own conflicts. D'Haran soldiers, through brawny and strong, were peace keepers in the land. So said the Father Rahl. The same Father Rahl that Corey's son, Jayden, now stood beside.

The silence in the D'Haran throne room seemed toxic. The longer it dragged on the worse the symptoms became. Each passing moment brought another bead of sweat, tenfold, to Jayden's brow. Every further droplet of sweat dirtied his already filthy hair, and made him all the less suitable for a King's eyes. At least in the young child's mind. He could feel Darken Rahl's eyes boring through him; he need not look to see it. He could feel the icy irises drilling their way right into his very soul. Burning away their path as they burrowed further and further. Trying to find his heart. Trying to find his weakness. A weakness that the boy was certain that the Master would use against him. He didn't think it could get any worse.

But he was wrong.

When Rahl's voice came, it cut through Jayden like a knife blade heated in the fire. The silken silence had dragged for what seemed like hours (yet the boy was quite certain it had been mere moments) that the King's velveteen voice had shattered what little nerve that he had had left. He visibly jerked with his surprise, keeping his eyes low afraid of the look of disgust he was sure upon the King's face.

Now, it was not to say that Jayden had ever heard tales of evil about the King. Honestly he couldn't ever remember a bad or ill-spoke word. It's not that he was taught to fear the King by his father. Corey had been a loyal soldier in the King's army for the years that he had served. The same tour of duty that all men had to serve once they were conscripted; nobility or not. It certainly was not his mother, Avalyn, whom like all young women seemed to want to try their hand at becoming the King's newest plaything. She was a widow mourning the loss of her husband, yes, but she was also a woman. A woman that was clearly capable of seeing what her future could be like if she only spent it with Darken Rahl. The King would never take the place of Corey in her heart of course, but it might fill the void left by his sudden death, and fill her bed once more. But it wasn't Avalyn that had taught the boy to fear his Father Rahl. Nor was it the school children with whom he had attended the small school house in Grimsby. No. it was never something that Jayden had been taught. At least not by outside sources. To him it only made sense. Especially after hearing all those Fairy Tales in his youth. The Prince had to save the Princess from the Evil King. The King who bore the name of Rahl. Wasn't that justification enough? Was this man not bearing the name of the House of Rahl? What did it matter if those stories were written in ages before the current Father Rahl was even thought of. Before he was born. What did it matter? Were not the stories all the same? The Evil King (or Queen in one case) would swoop down with the power of the Gar Nation, and destroy the land all in sight? (at least so said the children's stories) And those were the Kings who came before Darken Rahl. Kings with less magic and less beautiful of a face to hide behind. Jayden was far from stupid, uneducated about his han, yes, but never stupid. He knew that Darken Rahl was the second most powerful Wizard born in a century. He knew that all the magic that had flowed through the blood of his father and forefathers before him, was compounded and tripled within his very soul. And if they had all been so evil, than what was to say that Darken Rahl himself was not?

But the velveteen voice of Father Rahl cut quickly through his reverie. "You really do fear me, don't you Jayden?", the voice was surprisingly soft; smooth with what Jayden could have easily mistaken for concern.

Corey Wright's child did not want to lift his eyes from the floor. Did not want to tear his eyes from the sparkling white marble beneath the King's boots, for he knew that should he move his eyes, he would have to gaze into the face of his 'captor'. And yet he knew that the longer he drew out this silly little game the more rude was he being. He was always taught that rudeness was a sin, even if normally he would not have cared. But Jayden was not in a normal situation. He knew in the back of his mind that the longer he made the Evil King wait for a response, the harsher the punishment would be. And it might not even be upon his person. What if Father Rahl sent a quad to _break _and destroy his mother, Avalyn?

So Jayden made no move to answer. The sweat just continued to bead upon his forehead and trail down his nose and cheeks, and into his damp hair. Hair that was brushed back from his forehead. Jayden froze in terror.

Darken Rahl before him had knelt down. Truly he had moved so swiftly and quietly that Jayden had not noticed the change (it did not help that he would not look upon the King). The King's sun kissed hand had carefully reached out (while the other rested on his knee as he knelt) and brushed the soiled mop of fringe back from Jayden's blue eyes. His fingers kissed so softly and so briefly over the boy's face that Jayden finally could take the pressure no longer. And as the tears started to build up with both fear, and the guilt of being so afraid, he nodded his head frantically. Answering that yes, he was afraid of the man kneeling before him. Rahl brushed the back of his fingers over the boy's cheek once more in a soothing manner as Jayden finally gathered the courage to raise his eyes to that of the Lord Rahl.

What he saw there surprised him.

Darken Rahl's face, sun kissed yet unmarred and unlined with age, was gentle. His eyes were tender; an unearthly blue, while his brows were carefully knitted and raised with concern. He looked truly apologetic for what the boy was feeling. After a long moment he spoke once again in his silken way, "Why are you afraid? Do you think I am going to hurt you?", even that simple question was hard for Jayden. Moments before he had been terrified, but now he felt a further pang of guilt for thinking such horrible thoughts about the Father Rahl. The man was doing nothing but trying to care for him. He had done nothing but offer a service had he did not have to give. He had offered an education that came from a master magician; an education that came with the promise of time spent with the Lord. Time which was important to any monarch.

"I…", Jayden was trapped looking into the gentle and bewitching eyes of Father Rahl; deep in the back of his mind he was screaming that it was a trick. A spell. Yet in his heart he knew the better. While perhaps the image of innocence upon the Master's face was exaggerated and overused to win the boy over to his side, Corey's son was certain that he was being sincere. There was nothing hidden behind the eyes of the monarch. There was only the look of sorrow. Jayden swallowed a little and looked down for a moment. The contact with his new mentor's eyes was enough to break whatever was left of his heart after his father's death. When he had regained some of his composure, he looked back up. Into the waiting eyes of his Master. "I don't know Father Rahl. I have never heard a bad word or story ever told about you. I've heard good things, lots and lots of them, but…", he paused for a moment once again; Darken Rahl had tilted his head ever so slightly to the side to show that he was listening intently to the boy. "But I know you are powerful, and I know that your Dad before you-"

"Jayden. I am **not **my father. I hold no desire within my heart or soul to hurt innocent men, women, elders, or children. I am not the _man _that my father, Panis Rahl, was. I am the man that he thought he was to the people; a good King who, although he has made some poor choices, has tried his best to keep the people happy. Be they D'Haran, or one of the many people from the Kingdoms in the Midlands. Unlike my father I conform to the laws of the Mother Confessor in her throne in Aydindril. I, unlike my father before me, am not the enemy of the free peoples but their ally. Do you understand?", Rahl once more brushed the boy's hair back from his face as it had fallen forward again while the boy was giving his reasons for fright.

Jayden nodded his head up and down as he kept his eyes down. Afraid to meet with the King's now not because of fear of turning to stone, but for the fear of seeing the pain behind the eyes. It had been in his teacher's voice and shielded as best it could be. But he knew that the King's eyes would never lie.

Rahl moved his hand carefully down and cupped the boy's dirty, and slightly podgy cheek. His palm lay upon the child's jaw, forcing him to slowly look up as he tilted his jaw towards the heavens once more. When at last the boy was looking back into his eyes, Darken Rahl carried on with what he had been saying. "Jayden I have offered my services to your mother, but it is ultimately your choice. You do not have to accept the proposal of my teachings, but it would be wise to learn. So that one day your own children can learn from you the way of their han. How to control the intense magic that will surely thrive inside of them as it does you, and as it did your father."

Jayden nodded slowly and sadly. He was still completely unsure. In his mind he had been abandoned by the only parent that he had left in the world to the devices of a King that could turn on him the moment he made one wrong move. While Rahl was certainly very good at putting the guilt into his mind, the uncertainty, it came down the same state over again. He was left with a man that he had only heard of an never met. He had been left with a man to whom he was not related. He had been left by the only person still alive in the world that loved him. So truly, if she had left him here, did she love him?

Rahl sighed and smiled sorrowfully as he lifted his hands and put them both upon the child's face. Holding him still gently. "What do I have to do to make you trust me?"

"Let me go home to my Mama?"

Rahl raised his shaped dark brows. He had been completely caught off his guard with that request, and yet he knew that he had to expect such an answer. "Let you? Jayden you are free to leave whenever you wish. And to top the equation off, you are welcomed in the Peoples Palace whenever you wish. Now that you are here, from now till the end of your life, you will have a place here. As will your family." The gentle, but brilliant closed lips smile upon Darken Rahl's face brought the wisdom of his words forward. Though he was only twenty four his smile brought faint lines to the area around his mouth. Making him more human that Jayden had seen him. The boy stared at him for a long moment. He knew that smile, or at least one just like it.

"You look just like my Dad when you smile…. Kind and trustworthy.", Jayden had finally let his guard down. Lowered his high walls and let the King into his heart. He just silently prayed to the Spirits that it had been the right choice.

4


	4. Chapter Three: Fit For A Prince

-1**Disclaimer**: Avalyn and Jayden are the creation of my friend Amber. Darken Rahl, and D'Hara, are the creations of Mr. Terry Goodkind. I take absolutely NO credit for these things. I DO however own Corey, and the Mistresses Rikki and Brionna.

_**Chapter Three: **_**Fit For A Prince**

Jayden was still concerned about his future. But, for now it seemed as though he could relax. If even just a little.

It was still early enough in the day; the sun still high in the sky, when Jayden had finally set aside his fears. And he found that when he had, the weight of the world seemed lifted from his small, round, shoulders. So Darken Rahl himself was to teach him how to control and use his magic. This could be a very good thing indeed now that he looked at it without the clouded mind of a terrified child. He knew the Father Rahl to be very powerful, there was never any question about that. The only question he had ever had was to ends that that power was used for.

"My Lord," the Mord'Sith who had been standing to the left of the throne, bowed to her king. Her long honey coloured braid moving ever so slightly as Rahl moved to seat himself one more.

Rahl glanced up at her as he sat himself down. Jayden stood to his side, close at hand. He looked up at the woman dressed in blood red leather, and a chill went down his spine. He had seen Mord'Sith before. Not this woman in particular, but he had seen her sisters before. They had come to Grimsby in search of children to add to their order. Rahl, from the corner of his eye, could see the shudder travel through the boy. Discreetly he moved his left hand (as the boy momentarily stood at his left side) from it's place folded in his velvet covered lap, and sought the boy's hand. He gently squeezed Jayden's fingers once the boy had slipped his hand into the King's larger one. Just enough to say it's alright Jayden. She's not interested in you. Jayden, feeling the warm and gentle squeeze of his Master's grip, calmed himself once more. There were a number of things in the Peoples Palace that he was going to have to grow accustom to. And that included the constant presence of the Mord'Sith at his Master's side.

"What is it, Brionna?", Rahl stoned his features imperceptibly. Separating his bottom jaw from the top; his teeth agape between his closed lips. He drew his cheeks in slightly at the hollow as he raised his brow in his questioning. He tilted his jaw up; looking down his nose at the woman though she stood above him. The Mord'Sith he found to be of trivial use. He saw no need for them as his father had. In fact the way they went about building their ranks by kidnapping innocent children more than just irritated him. It upset him, deeply, right down to his core. But at least he was not the one that oversaw their training. That man was his father's former adviser (who was also his adviser, and growing on in years), Ansleigh. Though, Darken Rahl had to admit that the Mord'Sith were useful in other ways. When affairs of state grew to be too much for the King, either Brionna, or one of her many sisters were always there to alleviate the stress that burdened him. He cleared his throat slightly to snap himself out of such thoughts; now was not the time, nor the place.

Brionna's eyes turned harshly to Jayden, and the boy jolted a little again. Gripping Rahl's hand tightly, whether he meant to or not. Her voice was course when she spoke, as her gray, emotionless, eyes turned back to her Master's. "The boy smells like a dying horse. He reeks of farmland dirt and grime. He is filling the throne room with an unbearable stench."

Darken Rahl glanced to his left. His blue eyes looking upon Jayden as his brow raised a little. Almost a cold look.

Jayden cringed a little, but behind his King's eyes he saw the mirth. But it wasn't the look from Father Rahl that had made him move in the first place. It was the shame from knowing that Brionna's statement was true. No matter how hard Avalyn had tried to clean him up for their audience with the King, it had not been enough. On top of that they had had to travel; and it was a mild spring day. The boy had sweat. The horse had sweat.

Rahl looked once more to the Mord'Sith before him. He lifted his right hand from it's place still in his lap. He rubbed the pad of his middle finger leisurely over his supple lower lip for a moment. "And this pong bothers you, Mistress Brionna. I would have thought you would have been exposed to worse in your Temple."

Brionna's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Of course my Lord. But we are not in the Temple. We are in your grand throne room and I fear that this wretched odour will leach it's way into the tapestries and upholstery."

Rahl gave half a laugh. Caught off guard with her reasoning. He had to laugh. Once he straightened himself out once more, he spoke again. With that deceptively smooth tone. "Alright Brionna. Since the odour offends you as such, and not your sister Rikki here," he motioned to the right of himself where the second Mord'Sith stood. Silent as death and at complete attention. Jayden had to wonder if she had even blinked since he first laid eyes upon her.

Brionna followed his hand with her eyes suspicously to her fellow Mord'Sith. But, swiftly planted her eyes upon her King's once more.

"Than you will be the one to wash it from the boy."

Both Brionna's and Jayden's eyes widened. One in fear the other in alarm. "My Lord I have better things to do than to-"

"No! If you seek to complain to me about such trivial things as the tapestries having a slight aire, than you are going to be the one to fix it!", Rahl's voice was suddenly hard and he stood with force. Towering over the leather clad woman. "You will take Jayden into my personal bathhouse. There you will give him his bath and cleanse him until he sparkles. But you will not hurt the boy in any way. Is that understood?"

Brionna glared at the quivering mass of flesh standing near her Master. Her glare felt as though it was going to scorch right through the boy's body. But she slowly looked back towards Darken Rahl. "As you wish Master."

"Give me the agiel. I will not have you in possession of it while you are carrying out this task. I have little to no faith that you know how to calm any situation down without it's use."

Her gray eyes widened, and she had frozen in place.

Finally her Master had had enough. He reached forward and grabbed onto the hilt of the red leather rod, drawing it out from it's holster upon her thigh. He neither flinched nor showed any essence of pain when his fingers wrapped around the weapon. And Brionna hated him for that. The agiel brought to her Master no pain, as he had never been touched with one. Never felt the same blaze of horrid pain as she and her sisters had. But that was unimportant she supposed.

Brionna's eyes turned dark and once more looked to the boy. She felt as though her beloved childhood pet had been taken from her in the instance that Darken Rahl had confiscated her agiel, but it didn't matter. She wasn't going to show that it bothered her. Because as a Mord'Sith, nothing was supposed to bother her. She reached her gloved hand out quickly, and grabbed onto Jayden's hand. Turning, and dragging the frightened boy from the throne room.

Jayden looked over his shoulder as he was forced along by the unfeeling woman. Behind him he could see Father Rahl smiling slightly, but the smile was not at all insulting. The gentle expression eased his erratically beating heart, if only just a little. Jayden knew that the man was not as he appeared when in the act of directing the Mord'Sith. Darken Rahl was a double-masked soul. Benevolent, and pure. But that had to be hidden behind a thin veil of power. Now, Darken Rahl he knew to be a powerful man, as he had already witnessed his day and the rest of his childhood, but he knew the man held power with the love of the people, and not through brute strength and force. So as he saw the gentle smile upon the young King's lips, Jayden knew that the woman who he was forced to go with was sworn to obey Rahl at all costs. It was her life's duty to obey her Lord. But it still scared him.

The white marble halls of the Peoples Palace seemed to stretch on for infinity; it was after all a city within one set of walls. Yet for all the glorious expanse of space, the boy saw very little of other inhabitants. And the ones that he did manage to lay his eyes upon, were mostly Mord'Sith running patrols through the King's residence. But the sun shone brightly through the open walls of the hall through which Jayden and Mistress Brionna walked. One side of the hall was open to the grand gardens of the courtyards of the Peoples Palace; the roof held up with ornately carved marble pillars every twenty second foot. He could only look on in shock; there were all kinds of exotic birds that flittered about the gardens. Flashing their beautiful and bright feathered wings. But as he lagged behind, Jayden was jerked forward by Brionna.

Down the white winding halls they continued, passing tapestry after tapestry and banner after brilliant banner of crimson silk. All embroidered with gold thread marking out either the Double R's of the House of Rahl, or the crescent moon and star of D'Hara. But as the twinkling and shimmering of the embroidery caught his eye, Jayden's mind fell blank. He could barely fathom the idea of the gold thread. Each fine thread was no thicker than a fine strand of a woman's hair; solid gold wire that was spun so tightly that it was no less malleable than the seamstress's silk threads. He could barely imagine the amount of wealth in only one section of each banner, yet alone the riches in each of the twenty foot tall standards. But as they drew further into the walls of the palace, deepening into the core, Jayden noticed the sudden change. The standards and placards were no longer crimson and gold, but gold and snow. Crafted from white velvets and silks, left to flutter in the light spring breeze that billowed in through open windows.

Finally Mistress Brionna pulled him before two heavy wooden doors. Doors that stood at least fifteen feet tall each. Two heavily armed guards stood at attention on either side of the entree way; they bowed their heads to the Mord'Sith when they laid their eyes upon her rough air. The guard standing to the left of the doorway, the closest to Jayden (as Brionna had dragged him this way up the hall), glanced down at the boy. His brows knitting together slightly. At a loss as to why the Mord'Sith had a child with her when she was entering the King's Chambers. He had suspected that Father Rahl had sent the woman to fetch some object or book of his. If only just to keep the warrior-woman off of his back for twenty precious moments. The other guard on the other hand paid little to no attention. He did not care for the reason as to why there was a young boy with the Mord'Sith. He didn't believe it was his place to ask questions (and he knew better than to infuriate any of the _Sisters of the Agiel_). Yet guard who looked upon Jayden finally had to speak; his curiosity winning out. "Mistress Brionna, why do you bring this child with you?"

Brionna's grey eyes turned towards private Kariah. Her lips were pursed as she looked him over with raping eyes. Finally after a moment she spoke in her cold voice. "He is Father Rahl's new _student._", she found herself practically spitting out the word as though it left a bitter taste in her mouth. "He has decided to keep him in the Palace and teach him how to control his han. Is that not what the Sisters of the Light are for?"

Kariah leapt a little, jolted by the sudden increase of volume in her voice. He nodded, "Yes Mistress."

"The boy reeks of manure; I have been sent to bathe him and make him presentable to my Master. Open the door."

Kariah glanced to his partner, Jackonett. The other soldier simply nodded and turned towards the heavily gated entrance to the King's Chambers. He pushed the door closest to him open slowly, as Kariah took the other door. Slowly the men opened the way inside of the grand bedroom.

Brionna put her gloved hand between Jayden's shoulder blades and impelled him forcefully forward. The young boy couldn't help but stumble as he crossed the threshold. When he caught himself he could only look around in awe; until Brionna pushed him forward once more. Forcing him fully into the room as she followed behind.

The King's Chambers was a spaciously laid out circular room with a radius of fifteen feet. Like the rest of the palace it was made of sparkling white marble; but unlike the rest of the palace it was personalized. The Peoples Palace itself seemed cold to Jayden, and not in the sense of temperature. The walls were bare but for the standards of Kings and the occasional suit of armour that had been mounted to stand watch across time. But unlike the remainder of the Peoples Palace, the King's Chambers had a personal touch to it. He could smell the faint scent of the King's musky and dark cologne on the air; recognizing it from when the King had knelt before him. All around the room upon the rounded walls were sconces laden with nearly softened candles of pigs' fat. The wicks blacked and barely emerging from hardened puddles of melted. In here, unlike the hallways leading towards this place, the candles were replaced only once they had fully burned away. And while they remained unlit during the sunlight hours, Jayden could see easily that each large wick burned through each night; giving the space a soft golden glow to rival the silver of the moon. Between each sconce, set into a shadowbox in the wall, sat silver, or alabaster, or crystal glass vases. Some of these vessels held blood red roses, and others held a medley of springtime wildflowers, picked by the children of the capitol from the grasses surrounding the palace, and lovingly given to their King. The King who thanked them every morning with a kiss to the cheek for their hard work. Darken Rahl never asked for the flowers, yet the children brought them faithfully every day no matter.

And the Father Rahl hoped they would never lose the innocence that let the children barge into the throne room and before him in the middle of affairs of state to bring him such gifts. He hoped they would always be so sweet hearted, even if he knew that such a life was nearly impossible.

But as Jayden looked around the room his eyes fell over the large bed covered in midnight, silver, and gold silks and velvets. Yet he could see where the King always laid to the left side of the bed; closest to the wide grand window directly beside the left side of the bed where the light flooded in and over the bed. But to Jayden the bedstead looked lonely. He brushed it off as his eyes continued to travel about the room; falling over a door sitting at an angle to the bed. The room branched off like a cloverleaf towards the locked and bolted door, and the child could barely contain his curiosity. But as he moved to ask such a question, Brionna turned him to the left of where he stood; moving him passed the right side of the grand bed and through a second door that he hadn't noticed when he was heaved into the King's Chambers. Both doors in the room were lighter than the heavy entranceway; both easily moved by one person (though Jayden suspected that the front doors were easy enough to move for a man with as much magic as Darken Rahl). Mistress Brionna opened the wooden door and drove Jayden inside another room once again.

It was the King's personal bathhouse. The floor was made of a peach-toned pink marble, with veins of jasper running through it, as were the carved pillars that decorated the room rather than actually holding up the ceiling above. Fifteen feet into the extensive bathhouse, was a roman bath; a large bathing pool set flush into the floor. The water was constantly moving, and it was steaming. Water fed from underground hot springs through copper piping straight in and out of the deep stone pool. Jayden could smell musk and roses in the warm air, and realized that the fragrance upon the King's person was from the perfumed oil poured into the bathing pool.

When Jayden finally emerged from the bath he felt raw from head to toe. He was certain that Brionna had scrubbed off an entire layer of flesh in her quest to do exactly as her Master asked of her. To clean the boy completely. But, he had to admit that despite the burning of his red flesh (which would die down soon enough) that it felt wonderful to be so clean. He couldn't remember the last time that he had ever nearly shone. Though the Mord'Sith had sheered away his straggly hair, and the boy felt now that it was too short. He knew it wasn't important, but he had liked his slightly longer hair.

Brionna dragged Jayden, who was wrapped in a soft, 1,500 thread count, linen towel out into Rahl's Chambers once again. Jayden was shaking slightly; the bedchambers felt so much colder compared the bathhouse that had been at least ten degrees warmer with the steam that filled it from the hot springs. "Stay put.", her voice was still firm. She had hated her task of bathing the boy. To her it was humiliating. Her role in the Kingdom was to serve the King in important ways- and that didn't include washing a dirty farm boy. At least not in her mind.

Jayden could only nod as he pulled the soft linen closer to himself. He was still soaked; the water running and dripping out of his blonde hair. His teeth were chattering a little as he trembled with cold. The linen protected him, but the marble floor upon which he stood with naked feet was still nearly like ice. After all it was only spring. Jayden watched as Brionna stalked across the large room, and towards the locked door. It peaked his interest when she used magic captured from a wizard, to open the lock without a key. His eyes lit up when he thought he would be given the chance to see inside. But, all he could see was a sliver of sunlight, before Brionna's body blocked what little view that he had had. He sighed a little and cast his eyes back down.

The Mord'Sith returned from the other room within minutes; the wooden door closed behind her with a weighted knock. The iron lock once more chinked back together. Locking the room off from Jayden forever once more. Unless he should steal the key from Rahl. But he knew not where he would even start looking for it. Besides, the contents of the room locked away could not be that important. He thought he had seen dust upon the padlock. But his eyes lit up once more when he realized that the woman was carrying clothing for him. And beautiful clothing at that.

In her hand Brionna held a child's sleeveless velvet tunic that had small black leather cap sleeves to stand out from the shoulders. The tunic was built like a waistcoat; clasping together in the front with hidden tiny gold clasps. Real gold! The entire body of the tunic was finely quilted; the white velvet criss-crossed with diagonally embroidered lines of gold thread. The same thread that decorated the banners and tapestries of the Peoples Palace. The white collar was reinforced with white leather inside, to make it stand tall, while the outer white velvet was decorated by swirling golden trim. Jayden didn't notice at the moment that the gold trim stitched into the front of the tunic, over each breast and side of his abdomen, spelled out two ornate Rs facing back to back. All he noticed was that in ever swirl of the trim a small diamond or ruby had been stitched. He could not help but stare in wonder. Brionna had also brought with her a pair of children's black velvet breeches, and black leather riding boots with toes capped in silver, riveted to the leather with gold. She also carried with her a belt of worn black leather.

Jayden could not believe his eyes when he stood before the mirror, finally dried and dressed. He looked the part of a D'Haran Prince as his eyes roamed over his reflection. His fingers dancing over the finery of his attire. And then he realized. He was wearing clothing that once belonged to Darken Rahl. When he was a child. Before his father was killed and he went into hiding for eleven years (though he ruled, he never showed himself to the public eye in those years. Not until he returned to the capitol and had his official Coronation three years ago). The room that was locked must have been Rahl's as a child.

But his revelation and his inspection of his new clothing was cut short as the Mord'Sith pulled him once again from the King's Chambers and back through the halls of the Peoples Palace. She lead him once more into the throne room, where Rahl sat yet in his throne and reading parchment after parchment of royal duties. But something was different in the room Jayden noticed. A large and rather comfortable looking chair had been brought to Rahl's right side. While it was nowhere near the size or grandeur of the King's throne, it seemed royal in its own accord. The seat was mahogany wood, carved into a rolling and swirling seat that would have sat two men easily. The wood had been stained a dark red, and the carved summer flowers had been gilded with gold leaf. The padded seat and cushion upon the back of the chair was blood red velvet and looked so supple to the touch. And Jayden realized just how tired he was as he looked upon it.

Brionna knelt before Rahl, bowing her head to him as she placed her right gloved fist over her heart. Jayden bowed slowy following suit; he did not want to be pulled to the floor by the Mord'Sith. "My Lord, I have done as you asked. The boy is clean."

Rahl glanced away from Jayden and to Brionna before he looked back to the young D'Haran serf boy. He beamed gently, the slight smile lines upon his smooth cheeks made themselves known as his blue eyes cast a warm glow. "I can see that Brionna. Back to your post."

The Mord'Sith merely nodded curtly, before she stood to her feet and took long strides. She took her place to the King's left once more as she turned to face the entrance way of the throne room. Standing on the opposite side as her _sister_, Mistress Rikki.

Jayden kept himself bowed a little, unsure of where he should look or stand. He, unlike Brionna, had not been told to move. His back was aching a little, and his shortened blonde hair was starting to prick him in the eyes a little.

Rahl turned his attention once more to the boy as he leaned forward a little in his throne with his hands upon his lap. "Do you feel better after your bath?"

"A little raw, sir, and I miss my longer hair." He spoke without thinking, before remembering that he was speaking to the King. He flushed a little red. "I'm sorry Father Rahl!"

But Darken's brunette and shaped brow shot up questioningly. Wondering why the child was suddenly apologizing. He had asked if the boy felt better, and he had been given an honest answer. Where was the problem. But, he easily brushed the matter off. "Well, your flesh may feel a little worse for it, but you look much better. About three pounds lighter if I'm not mistaken.", he smirked playfully as he teased the boy. Implying that he had been wearing three pounds of filth. He put his hand gently upon the plush seat next to himself. "You must be tired Jayden. Come, sit with me and rest while I deal with the stately affairs.

Jayden's eyes widened; the chair was for him? But he quickly nodded and stood properly to his feet once more. He stepped up the two shallow stairs to the platform upon which the throne and the chair were stood. The chair was bigger now that he stood before it, and softer than he imagined as he sat himself into it. He could see Father Rahl beside him smile a little as he glanced to the boy, before draping one leg over the other and turning back to the parchment he had been reading.

7


	5. Chapter Four: A Minor Setback

-1**Disclaimer: **Avalyn and Jayden are the creation of my friend Amber. Darken Rahl, and DHara, are the creations of Mr. Terry Goodkind. I take absolutely NO credit for these things. I **DO** however own Corey, and the Mistresses Rikki and Brionna. 

_**Chapter Four: **_**Dark Reminder, and a Minor Setback**

Jayden had never realized just how boring royal life must be. He only ever thought of the riches and the love of the people for the monarchs. But this? This was a fate worse than death.

Darken Rahl sat to the boy's left side. He was turned slightly, so part of his back faced the boy as he turned at the waist. Once again he had one leg draped over the other, unperturbed, by the world around him. His foot swayed slightly back and forth, keeping beat with the optimistic, quiet, melody he hummed under his breath while he read the parchments given to him. This had been the norm for the last thousand years. At least for Jayden. In reality It was probably less than two hours.

The D'Haran boy wanted to scream. Wanted to wiggle. Wanted to swing his feet back and forth. But every time he shifted in the plush chair, he caught his Master's adviser's eyes.

Ansleigh was reaching on in years; at least sixty years old himself. His hair was white and long, falling to his shoulders, only a little less than that of his King, whose hair lay in chocolate waves upon the top of his back between his shoulder blades. Through the length of his hair, Ansleigh sought to show that his status in the Kingdom was nearly that of the King himself. His face was lined with age, but more so with the lines of frowns and harsh looks over sixty years. He had a beak of a nose, rather like a raptor's, and his gaze was as harsh as any wild cat. Ansleigh seemed to look down his nose at Jayden, judging the boy, every time he fidgeted. It stopped Jayden cold every time. Ansleigh had been Panis Rahl's adviser before Darken Rahl came into power.

Jayden looked over Rahl's velvet covered shoulder in boredom, straining a little to see the parchment he was reading. But the moment he saw the strange symbols written in black upon the yellowed sheepskin, he felt a headache come on. High D'Hara, the language of the royals and therefore the official documents issued by the King, was harder than he ever imagined. And yet beside him Rahl seemed to barely graze his eyes over the lines of swirling and tangled symbols. Distracted enough that he could hum through his nose at the same time to keep himself entertained. But the moment that the boy stretched himself up, pushing against the arms of the chair he sat in in order to look over the King's shoulders, he caught Ansleigh's eye again. The older man snapped his head towards the boy, finally looking away from his King who sat nearly oblivious to the matter. Or perhaps Rahl was merely ignoring it, pretending to be none the wiser. But Ansleigh was not Darken Rahl, and he was not going to ignore the boy any longer. He had finally snapped, and his voice was booming and harsh, "Are you as stupid as you are annoying?"

Jayden jolted in surprise; falling back into his seat when he was barked at. He whimpered just a little from fright as he sat still.

Darken Rahl's foot, which had been freely tapping back and forth as his leg was crossed over the other, suddenly stopped in mid sway. His back straightened imperceptibly. Jayden couldn't see it because the Master's back was pointed mostly towards him, but Rahl's eyes lifted up from the parchment. Gazing harshly upon the elder man. Ansleigh paused a little. All he could see of the King was the steely blue eyes giving him the raptor's gaze. For a moment, if he could not have seen the young man's night-coloured locks framing his face and laying upon his shoulders, the adviser would have sworn he was looking into the eyes of Panis Rahl once again. He just fell silent in place of apologizing to the boy. But, to Rahl it seemed enough. He looked back down towards the parchment he was reading before. Yet he never went back to tapping his foot or humming. His opening happy mood knocked back to calm.

But the sun was sinking in the sky now, and Jayden was beginning to realize how tired he truly was. His eyelids were getting heavy, and the plush of the chair he sat in was lulling him into a sense of relaxation. Finally his lids started to close, and everything turned black. Completely asleep, the boy stayed seated upright for the better part of five minutes, before he slumped to the side.

Rahl let the boy stay against him; Jayden had tilted to his left in his slumber, and rested now with his cheek against the King's broad shoulder. But it if at all bothered Father Rahl, he made no move to say it. In fact he only tried the harder to move less as not to disturb the sleeping child. So the boy just slept on peacefully for the hour or so that it took for the stately affairs to be finished with.

After another hour or so, when the sky was dark orange with the setting sun, Jayden finally started to wake again. Rahl had since put the parchments away for the day, and sat now with his eyes closed in relaxation while the Mord'Sith continued to stand guard at his sides. The child was still resting against him, but had since been rearranged. Jayden was groggy, and could feel his cheek against warm velvet. His brows knit together a little, confused as he groaned. He could feel the man whose chest he laid against, but it didn't make any sense to him in his addled state. His eyes were still closed when he spoke without thinking, "Mm… Dad?".

Rahl didn't move. He didn't tense, or snap his eyes open though he was awake. He knew the boy would realize shortly, and he didn't want to further upset the child. Jayden had been through enough in the last month or so. He had lost his father when one region attacked another and the Peoples Peace Army had not been able to reach the village in time to act as peace keepers. He had been then denied a place in the village in which he had grown up. Corey had protected the boy from the persecution; it wasn't Jayden's fault that he couldn't control his gift just yet. After that he had been denied a place in the valley of Thandore with the Sisters of the Light; they would not teach him if he could not control his Wizard's Fire. Yet it was for that very reason that he needed to be taught. And now he was left upon the proverbial doorstep of another man, to be taken care of. There was no need to further upset the boy.

And he was right. In mere seconds Jayden realized his folly and his heart sank. He pulled away from Darken Rahl's velvet clad breast gently.

But Mistress Rikki had had enough of the boy. She had seen her _sister _have to deal with the brat. She growled deeply when the _creature _had spoken, calling her Master father by mistake. She finally moved from her station to the right of Jayden and Darken Rahl; pulling the agiel from its holster upon her leather covered thigh. She marched the few steps and stood before Jayden and the King, brandishing her weapon as she braced her booted feet more than shoulder-width apart. Her voice was low and gravely as she drew out her words. "You will show Father Rahl the respect that he deserves, or I will _train _you until you are leaping through hoops at the mere flick of his wrist!"

Jayden, as soon as he saw the weapon, yelped. Scrambling back into his chair and nearly tipping it over. Scared of the woman, and even more frightened of what the agiel could do. He had never felt the touch of the leather rod, but he had heard horror-stories. He hoped that they were only horror-stories. He was quaking a little, whimpering as Rikki drew closer, her agiel in hand and ready to use.

Rahl stood quickly, easily stepping between the Mord'Sith and his new charge. He raised his hand gently, keeping a calm demeanour (even though behind him the petrified lad had latched onto the velvet skirts of his red overcoat). "Stand down Rikki. There is no need for this reaction. You will not harm this boy. You are to treat him as you would if he were my own son."

The black-haired Mord'Sith turned her green eyes towards him with a stern expression. She kept her eyes locked upon her Master for a long moment. A moment that would have sent chills through any other man, while Rahl remained tranquil with a soft smile barely pulling at his lips. After a moment she straightened herself, "Of course my Lord." She sheathed her agiel once more, and nodded her head. Though, she turned her acid-green eyes towards the boy. She turned and moved back to her position at their side, even though it burned her to do so.

Jayden was shivering, peeking out from around Darken Rahl's hip; his fingers still gripping the fabric.

Darken turned around slowly and brushed the boy's shortened blonde hair back from his forehead. Still Corey's son nearly jumped out of his skin at the touch, until he realized that the Mord'Sith had been put back into her place. Brionna had not moved from her place on the other side of the King. Jayden slowly tore his eyes away from where Mistress Rikki had been standing, and looked up towards Darken Rahl's gentle face. "I will not let Mistress Rikki or her _sisters _lay a hand upon you. Not ever. I swear it."

Jayden's brows knit together in concern. It's not that he did not want to believe that the King was telling the truth, but he wondered how he was going to be able to keep his oath.

"Jayden.", Rahl sighed softly and ruffled his own hair a little. Moving it back from his face . "The Mord'Sith answer **only **to me. I will never give the order for them to hurt you. You don't need to fear them." Rahl caught Jayden (and the Mord'Sith, guards and Ansleigh) off guard as he suddenly wrapped his arms around the child, lifting him up from the seat and onto his hip as though he were a toddler and not the young man he was turning into. He shifted the boy's weight easily (as Jayden gripped at the wide collar of his coat) and carried him once more through the winding white hallways towards his chambers. Once inside the luxurious room, he set Jayden on the bed briefly before he opened up a small drawer hidden the nightstand, and pulled out a silver key. Jayden's eyes lit up when he realized it was the key to the locked room. Jayden was awake enough now. Moving off the large bed, he took the hand offered to him. Gripping Rahl's hand as he lead him across the large room. But the want of sleep was pulling at his eyes once more. He lifted his free hand and rubbed at his eyes. "You'll be in bed soon, I promise.", Rahl smiled down at him gently before letting go of Jayden's hand and taking a hold of the iron lock. He fit the key inside the lock, and turned it to the right. The mechanism inside clanked and clicked loudly before spitting out the horseshoe of the lock. Rahl put the silver key once more into his pocket, as he pushed the door open. Leading Jayden inside.

The boy's eyes lit up when he saw the room; it was nearly an exact replica of the King's Chambers. The bed, the dresser, everything was scaled for a child. Fresh candles had been put into sconces, and fresh wildflowers gathered by the children yet again for the vases in the shadow boxes set into the stone walls. The room, though it had been locked for years, had been cleaned every month since it was last used fourteen years earlier. The dust brushed away and the bedclothes changed.

Rahl turned to him, "This is your room now."

Jayden looked up to him, still in awe of the room. He was speechless.

"Get some sleep. Your lessons will start in the morning.", he smiled as he nodded his head to the boy before heading back through the door to his own chambers. He pulled the timber door closed behind himself.

Jayden looked around for a moment before moving to the bed. He pulled the soft covers back and crawled into the bed. The down filled mattress was soft as a cloud. He fell into it and was quickly lost to his dreams once more.

The sound of happily chirping and singing birds brought reality back to Jayden once again the next morning. He groaned slowly pushed himself up, rubbing his eyes tiredly to clear them of the grogginess of sleep. The sun streamed down in through the open window; thin white silk curtains floated around in the light breeze of the spring morning.

The room positively sparkled with wealth and finery. The sunlight glittering off of silver and gold objects that lay sitting upon the dresser and desk that sat in the room. But Jayden was unable to look around for too extensive of a time period; the door to his room opened. For a moment the boy was unable to see who the man behind the door was due to the bright sunlight pouring in from both windows. He saw a fade and bright silhouette. Yet, he knew that the man must be Father Rahl.

When Darken Rahl stepped out passed the blinding early morning sunlight, Jayden was surprised. he expected to see the King in robes of luscious red fabrics once more; but it wasn't what his eyes caught. The King was not dressed as a King. The young Father Rahl was wearing tight fitting soft black leather breeches that laced up over his crotch, and all up the seams that started from the middle-front of each hip and ran in straight lines down the center of his thighs, over his knees and right to the final hem. The black buckskin lacing criss-crossed back and forth. His feet, though tanned, were bare. He wore a tunic, whose tails (on in the back) laid down covering his leather clad backside. The tunic was a fine, high thread count, indigo grenadine. The tunic was built like a vest; nearly sleeveless. To the seam which lay the seam under his arms, was sewing two large billowing sleeves of the same soft grenadine. The seam being only half stitched into the waistcoat allowed for each sleeve to hang and billow slightly; exposing his shoulder and deltoids. The vest was split down the front; closing with little silver leaf-like clasps looking more like stars against the midnight sky. It's collar, with a core of leather, stood high as it opened down to his upper abdomen. At the top of his breeches the tails were cut at an angle; lengthening to the back. The hems, and only the hems, were covered in a fine silver trim.

Jayden looked him over, and had to question quietly, "Father Rahl?"

Darken smirked a little as he walked to his old bed and took a seat upon the soft mattress at the boy's side. "Who else would it be?"

Jayden blushed a little but shrugged lightly. "I'm not sure… I thought maybe you might have had a double…", he kept his eyes low.

Rahl raised a brow before he laughed a little. "No, I don't have any doubles nor do I need them. So yes, it's me. Anyway.", he paused for a moment as he looked the tired boy up and down, "It's about time to start your lessons."

Jayden cringed a little, "You're not afraid that I will raze the Peoples Palace to the ground?", he looked up, his blue eyes questioning the older man.

Rahl could only smirk a little; the playful smile tugging at his lips. "That's the wonderful thing about the Peoples Palace. It is entirely made of stone. The only thing that you can destroy is the furniture and the food stores. Both of which, mind you, can be replaced."

"Oh…", Jayden looked around, hopeful for a moment. And then he realized just how much furniture were in the two royal chambers alone. And the rest of the Palace held most of the D'Haran nobles. It was, after all, the main hub of the Kingdom. The capitol. Those that lived in villages and other cities scattered around, didn't reach the number that inhabited this ancient Palace. He couldn't help but sigh once again. Knowing he could still cause many problems. And then were was Ansleigh and the Mord'Sith. Even if Father Rahl was himself unbothered by the prospect of having half of the capitol destroyed, the boy knew that an angered Ansleigh could very well override the wishes of his Master and set the Mord'Sith upon the boy. It would only have been an accident though! Jayden would never in a million lifetimes intentionally destroy anything. Especially not in a place that had kindly taken him in when he had no where else to turn.

Darken watched the look in the boy's eyes change from hopeful, to worried, to terror, and finally to destitution. He continued to watch the child for a long moment as he sat with his right leg curled under himself and his left hanging off of the bed. His toes were just brushing against the floor as he sat with his hands on the calf of the leg folded with the foot under his opposite thigh. "Jayden. Don't worry about what could happen. Wizard's Fire is the very last thing I will teach you. And if you want I will have a Rada'han made for you while you are taught.", his voice was soft and comforting once again. Darken Rahl, just like Jayden's father Corey, knew just what tone to use in order to snap him from his fears. Even his mother Avalyn, though bless her heart for trying, had not succeeded with that.

But the boy suspected that Rahl could probably sense in the child all of his fear. And he had seen the King speak with the children of the Palace the afternoon before during a brief break from the affairs of state. They had brought him many hundreds of picked wildflowers. And Rahl had been talented with the way he spoke to them. So Jayden merely suspected that he was using the same tactic upon him as he would any other panicking child. "But, collars are heavy and cold and…heavy.", he looked up to the King innocently.

A slightly sad smile crossed his face, "That they are Jayden. They are humiliating as well. But, if it would comfort you I can have one made that you can wear."

Jayden thought it over a moment, before he nodded slowly. "Can I think about it for a while?"

"Honestly? I would prefer that you think it over well and clear."

Jayden merely nodded, thinking over the consequences of a Rada'han, and wondering if Rahl really knew how it was to wear one, or if he merely wanted to save the child a bit of embarrassment.

After a moment Darken Rahl spoke once again. "Jayden I can tell you I know what it is like to wear the collar. In fact, I still have it.", the King stood up once more; putting the foot whose toes brushed against the floor flat and lifted himself with the strength in one leg as he pulled his other foot from under himself. He straightened himself out as he put his other foot down and walked towards the door which separated the two rooms. He disappeared into the King's Chambers momentarily before he returned to Jayden's side. Once again taking a seat with his right foot under his left thigh upon the bed. He held up a two inch tall iron collar with a lock in the center of it. The metal was at least quarter of an inch thick; solid enough that a man could not force it to break on his own. An once set, the lock would not release without the key, nor would the simple locking mechanism break.

The boy's eyes widened in horror. Fixated upon the dirty iron collar that Rahl held in his hand. For a long moment he couldn't move his eyes away. He had never seen a Rada'han before, but he knew the moment he laid his eyes over it that he wanted nothing to do with it. He only tore his eyes from the implement of magical repression when he heard his teacher's voice once more.

"I wore this collar for seven years straight, when I was your age. And I want you to really consider what this means if you chose the collar."

Jayden's brows knit together confused. "But… but you were the Prince. How could they do that to you?"

"No Jayden, I was King. It was done for my own protection, and that of the healers but-"

Jayden couldn't help but speak up, "Healers my Lord?"

Rahl closed his cerulean eyes slowly and let out a hushed sigh from deep within his chest. "When the Great Wizard raised the Boundary fourteen years ago, he had one last act of _heroism _against my father, Panis Rahl. The King of D'Hara at the time. I want so badly to blame the Wizard for what had happened to myself and my father, but I cannot. I know my father was a bastard of a King. That is why I seek to be a better man, but I am straying from my purpose.", he paused and rubbed his forehead a little. When he finally spoke up again, Jayden was listening wide eyed. "The Great Wizard threw a great ball of Wizard's Fire through the strengthening Boundary, just before he knew that we would no longer be able to cross it. The orb of flame struck my father and encased him. It burned him beyond all recognition. It consumed the breath right from inside of his lungs and left him a scorched corpse. Blackened and barely more than ash. Unfortunately I was standing to the right of my father at the time. I was ten years old. While the flame did not hit me directly, it caught the left side of my body."

The student visibly cringed. He had a feeling of where this was going, and he knew he was not going to enjoy it.

"Anyway, it burned me and rendered me unconscious. My father's Mord'Sith carried me back to the Palace as quickly as they could, but Wizard's Fire is not like the natural flame; it burns long after the flames have been smothered. So for months my flesh burned and blistered as though the flames were still in place. But because of my own blood, as the son of Panis Rahl, I had my own magic. And after such a trauma it awoke inside my soul. The same reason as to why your han has manifested itself since you lost your beloved father. I had the same problem as you; fire." He raised his brows a little as drew the corners of his mouth down and shrugged his left shoulder as he turned his head slightly in that direction. Almost brushing his own words off. "But unlike you, I was terrified of the flames, and fear fuelled the magic worse. That, and I had been removed from the Peoples Palace so that I was not targeted by those that still fought against the Kingdom. Pockets of Resistance that have since realized that I am not my father." He smiled gently and brushed Jayden's hair back when he saw how the boy had grown pale. He took a deep breath and continued on. "So they locked me into the collar to protect myself, themselves, and the wooden accommodations that they had hidden me away in. After three years the burns had started to seal over. After five years they were pink but would still split if I moved too far. After seven years they were stable and able to hold together. In those seven years I had read through all of my father's books on magic. Both good and, well, not so good. He had tried to teach me when I was younger, but I had not cared to learn. What I did learn from him I will **never **use. Anthropomancy is a vile and horribly cruel _art _that holds no use when I can easily call for a Confessor to find my answers for me. Though, Panis Rahl did alter the relationship between D'Hara and Aydindril. Forever I fear. But I'm trailing off again. Where was I? Oh. Anyway, after the seventh year they unlocked the collar. I was seventeen and had since learned to control it on my own. But I was still weak and slowly healing. I wasn't fully recovered until I was about twenty years old. So for my twenty-first birthday I returned the Peoples Palace and had my official Coronation. That was just over three years ago now."

Jayden looked up with fear in his eyes. That revelation meant that all the while he was hearing Fairy Tales about the Evil King, the Good King lay abed healing from the wounds of war. It meant that for all of Jayden's life Darken Rahl had been plagued by the burns. It meant that Jayden was born in the forth year of his King's torment. And he didn't like that thought. It meant that all the while he thought that the Evil King was the King he now served, it was in fact the King's Father. And he had been so terrified of this young man when he arrived her a little under twenty three hours earlier. He looked up and met his teacher's gently smiling eyes (Rahl was smiling softly, trying to tell the boy that it was alright), and suddenly closed his eyes and leaned forward quickly. Throwing his arms around Rahl's middle and hugging him tightly.

But Rahl gasped loudly, and not from the sudden hug. His face contorted as he cringed, baring his teeth in pain. Deep and nearly snorting breaths coming through his flared nostrils as he gently took a firm grip upon the child's upper arms trying to push him back and off.

Jayden quickly got the picture and eased back, looking up worriedly.

Rahl was still panting slightly; his eyes betraying the pain he was surely feeling. "Don't worry," the breathy answer came from the King as he slowly unclasped his tunic and took hold of the left side. Carefully and little by little pulling it away from his torso. He sighed in relief. The burns on the left side of his abdomen were not split or bleeding; just a little pink from the sudden weight of the child colliding with his body as hard as he could.

Jayden on the other hand, did not take the sight as calmly. His eyes were wide, and his mouth agape. Unable to find words as he stared at the scars. Burns. Ghastly burns that covered from just above Darken's navel and over to his side. They stretched down over his lower abdomen and - Jayden cringed - into the man's breeches. They didn't even falter. He hated to think of just all that had been burned in the magic flames. He almost felt himself getting faint.

Rahl on the other hand drew a sharp breath as he looked down, carefully prodding his scarred flesh looking to see if it had been weakened or broken in places. His long dark hair fell over his shoulder and into his eyes slightly. But, he found no such signs. Taking that as a good omen, he pulled his tunic closed once more (albeit carefully) and clasped it. When he looked up, he saw the boy pallid and trembling. This was getting ridiculous. This boy needed to stop being so worried and upset. "Hey. HEY!", Rahl had to raise the volume of his voice to get the boy's attention.

Jayden's face snapped up quickly. Worried he was about to be punished for what he had done. He had only sought to hug the man to show him that he was sorry for what he had gone through as a child. His eyes were still large.

"Don't do that. Don't worry about it." Rahl put his hand on the boy's and gently gripped his boney shoulder. "You could not have known that that was going to happen. And I probably should have warned you. But it's done, and I will recover. But as I said, Wizard's Fire will be the last thing you are taught. And it's not to do with fear. It happens to be one of the harder things to learn, and harder yet to teach. So first you are going to read the books I have set aside for y- what's wrong now?", Rahl's voice changed pace and tone when he saw the boy's embarrassed expression. But the child didn't answer him, "Well?"

"I um… I never learned how to read…"

"I don't expect you to read High D'Haran if that is what you -"

Jayden shook his head vigorously. "No. I stayed with my Dad on the farm and helped his grow and collect the harvest. I only started attending the school house with the other children after he died last month. And then I was banned for nearly causing a fire. I don't know how to read or write at all." His cheeks were flushed bright red.

Rahl could only stare at him wide-eyed like a dear caught before a cart thundering along, for a moment. But his eyes softened and he smiled. "Alright, that's only a minor setback. We can fix that easily."

Jayden's eyes lit up, "You mean you'll teach me?"

"Well I did promise your sweet mother that I would teach you to use your han in the proper way. Annnnd I cannot do that until you can read. So yes, I'll teach you to read and write first. But this also means I will have to teach you how to read D'Haran, High D'Haran, and the Common Tongue of the other lands. The lettering is different for each. This may take longer than I thought it would."

"I'm sorry Father Rahl."

"Jayden. If you want to keep having me as your teach you have to stop apologizing. It's getting ridiculous." He smirked and ruffled out the boy's hair before he got up from the bed once more. Moving to the desk he picked up several sheets of blank parchment, a bottle of black ink, and a red feathered quill. When he sat back down he spoke as he dipped his quill into the ink before drawing a symbol onto the paper. "Might as well start at the very beginning." The symbol he penned had a long body, and two arms that branched off to the right; pointing to the top of the paper. A little like a one-sided, three branched, tree. "This is Fehu. It makes the begging sound in FISH. It's meaning is Wealth and Cattle. But for now only it's sound and recognition are important."


	6. Chapter Five: All Fears That Haunt

**Disclaimer: **Avalyn and Jayden are the creation of my friend Amber. Darken Rahl, and DHara, are the creations of Mr. Terry Goodkind. I take absolutely NO credit for these things. I **DO** however own Corey, Commander Pajonah, and the Mistresses Rikki and Brionna.

_**Chapter Five:**_** All Fears That Haunt The Night  
**

And so the teaching went slowly. As the months passed Jayden learned the D'Haran Runic alphabet, and from there learned High D'Haran. The tongue of the Royal Family. Of the House of Rahl. Most of the books of magic, and the grimoires, that Darken Rahl had brought before him on the first day of lessons, were written in this language; it was so that the knowledge stayed within the Rahl Bloodline. But, when Rahl had heard the child needed to be taught, he had throne that tradition to the wind. What was the difference to him if the boy be taught with the tools and implements used by generations of Rahls innumerable? What difference was one child in the grand scheme of things?

A great deal, as he soon learned.

The warm spring had faded into a dreary summer. The lands of D'Hara, and much of the east beyond, were plagued by heavy rains and thunderstorms. The growing season would be poor if it continued.

Darken Rahl stood at the window of Jayden's room. The curtains had been drawn and held in place by silver brackets. He stood, hunched over with his hands on the wide stone windowsill. He leaned his upper body over the window seat as he gazed out across his realm. The sky was close to black. Mottled gray with the minor breaks in the water laden storm clouds. The air smelt of fresh water and damp earth. It smelt cold. The rain drove down in torrents; the beads that collided with the Palace walls surrounding the windows splashed back. The fine mist dampened King Darken's face. He sighed softly as he looked out the window. The once emerald green grasses appeared hunters green now with the dark light of the long winded summer storm. He didn't like this weather at all. It would lead to nothing good. He was sure of it. And then he saw him. Across the Azrith Plains, in the distance yet. A man on a dark horse, and moving at great speed towards the Peoples Palace. But as his eyes focused on the rider, his student caught his attention.

"Father Rahl?", Jayden's voice quickly snapped him out of his weather concerned thoughts.

Rahl lifted his hands from the window sill and pulled himself back. He brushed out his tunic before sitting on the window seat to face Jayden who sat at the small desk in the room. He knew his back was going to be cold and wet if he stayed in the position for very long, as the water was pelting it's way inside of the glassless window, but at the moment he didn't care. "What is it Jayden?"

"Nothing, I just wanted to know if you were still here with me." The blonde haired boy smiled gently when he looked back at his King. His short choppy hair had grown out in the last few months (though it was also aided by a few words of whispered magic). It lay now brushing at the tops of hiss shoulders. Only a little shorter than Darken Rahl's. but the King himself had no curtailed the length of his hair in sometime; it graced the top of his strong breast in chocolate waves.

Darken smiled a little and nodded gently, "I'm here Jayden. Go ahead, back to your studies."

Jayden merely nodded and turned his back once more to the young man behind him. Burying his nose into the book that was open one the desk.

Darken's mind was still on the rider that he had spotted. Flying like the wind chased by a rabid Gar. And the deep sense of foreboding grew within his belly once more. Riders were never a good sign. Never bringing him good news. But, as he was well aware, the only thing that he hated more than bad news was having it kept from it. At least if he were told there was a chance to do something about the problem at hand. When left untreated even the most minor of concerns had a way of festering like an open wound. And then, as Darken had come to notice, all the Underworld seemed to break loose for him. So in a way he supposed that it was best to bring the rider into the palace and hear his words when he arrived.

He wished he never made that choice.

Darken had since left Jayden to his studies; it was barely evening at this point and he knew that no matter what he might tell his young charge, that Jayden would stay up until the wee hours of the morning. Lost deep into the histories of the magic of the Rahl Bloodline, and the magic of the world. The histories of the Mother Confessor and her Confessors all through time. The histories of the Seekers, whom were each worshipped by the peoples of the Three Territories for their bravery throughout the great battles of history.

Darken sat calmly in the throne, pointed towards the crackling fire. Though it was summer, the season was wet, the air damp and the stone of the Peoples Palace was cold. Though he supposed in the back of his mind he did himself no favours in the way he was dressed. Fine lightweight silks draped off of his broad form. Summer clothing. But he sat with one leg draped over the other, leaning to the side. The pad of his middle finger brushing against his full lower lip. Just gazing into the crackling flames. The golden glow illuminating his harshly attractive features.

The doors of the throne room creaked open; pushed by the guards that flanked the outer entrance.

Rahl looked up calmly from his place at the inglenook when he heard the groaning of the massive oak doors. Then came Commander Pajonah. The rider. The King's eyes filled with concern; the Commander was supposed to be in the area surrounding Grimsby. It was only a small village, like most of D'Hara outside of the Peoples Palace, but Jayden's mother was there. And as the man marched quickly through the throne room, dread filled Darken's belly once more. His eyes narrowed and his brows knit together uneasily as Pajonah knelt and bowed before him. Covering his heart with his fist as he bowed his head to his King in the sign of respect. Normally Darken would have mirrored his bow to show the soldier he respected his men as much as they did him. But now? Now he kept his eyes cast down on the kneeling man.

"Father Rahl.", his voice was sombre, as the water from the rain that had soaked him continued to roll down out of his hair and into his eyes. He held his helmet under one arm.

"Commander Pajonah.", Darken's voice was exactly that. Dark. "Why have you come from your posting?"

"I…I bring ill news my Lord.", his blue eyes flashed up briefly to look into the face of his King, before he lowered his sightline once more. Concentrating on the King's booted feet.

Rahl closed his eyes tightly. He knew it. A rider flying over the Azrith Plains as though hunted by one of his pet Gars was never a good sign. It always posed more problems than it did answers. He took a deep breath, before slowly exhaling. Releasing the life breath in a sigh. "What is it Commander?"

Pajohah lifted his face once more from his bow as he slowly stood up. "Where is the boy?", he seemed concerned. And the sense of dread in the King's heart started to grow and multiply. He had a feeling where this was headed.

"He is in his chambers. Deep in his studies. Tell me what is wrong.", he was growing a little impatient. While he wanted to hold off on the bad news as long as he could, he was also desperate to have his intuition assuaged and calmed. He wanted to know that he was mistaken. That he was doing nothing more than pointless worrying. Worrying which he found himself doing more of late. Ever since Jayden was put into his care. He just worried.

Pajonah's expression softened a little; Pajonah had always been a good hearted and kind man. Strong, but good. His eyes were full of sadness. "I tried to save her, Father Rahl, I swear it on my mother's grave. I tried to save her."

Darken tensed. _Please do not confirm my fears Pajonah…_he gripped the arm of the throne to his left as he stood now to the right of the massive chair. Having stood while he looked down at the once kneeling soldier. "Tried to save _who,_ Commander?"

"Avalyn Wright, my King.", his voice was soft and quiet, but the words were not lost upon Darken Rahl.

He closed his eyes tightly. His grip upon the throne tightened all the further. Any tighter and his fingernails would leave deep indents into the ancient timbers. His greatest fear, or rather it was more of a deep-rooted important concern, had come to light. "How?"

"It was so senseless my Lord. She was on her way home from the market one evening. It was late, but not beyond midnight. She passed along the mainstay of the village, passing the _Judge and Jester _pub. She thought she was safe enough but she was unfortunately very wrong. Drunkards attacked her. They wanted money for more ale. But, when they found that she had none, they… took what else she had to offer. By force."

Darken Rahl's eyes squeezed all the tighter as he kept them closed. If his brows were any more knitted in hurt and concern he feared that he would be left with a deep emotion line, even before he turned twenty five years of age. He feared for Jayden. He worried about how he was going to break the news to his young charge. How do you tell these things to a child? How do you tell a ten year old that they have lost their beloved father, and now their mother, in less than a year? In less than five months?

"Father Rahl, they left her broken and dying in the streets. My men found her while walking our patrol. I wish only that we had started earlier that night my Lord. I wish we could have found her before it was too late, or before the bastards had ever touched her. I would have personally escorted her home if I had been aware of what was going to happen."

Darken nodded, slowly opening his eyes. Behind those clear blue irises was raging a storm. How was he going to tell Jayden? But he looked down at Pajonah, who still appeared to be burdened with the knowledge. He shook his head gently, and spoke in in a fluid and soothing manner, "No Commander. There was no way you could have knowN what was going to happen. Please, go home. Rest, love your wife, and I will take this news as my responsibility. I lift it from your shoulders, Commander Pajonah."

Pajonah's blue eyes lightened a little and he nodded. The words brought him a sense of relief. He almost felt a great weight lifted from his person. But he spoke again. "Father Rahl, I rode hard and fast; I covered D'Hara as quickly as I could. This is why I came west from the Rang'Shada mountains rather than from the east and the great inland sea upon which Grimsby is settled. I looked everywhere, asked everyone. I searched high and low for a member, however distant, of Jayden's family who could take him when his lessons are complete."

Darken's eyes lifted quickly. He was surprised that this man had taken such a feat upon himself without the orders to do so. But it pleased him, as much as such grave news could. At least now he would not have to search the vast Kingdom for himself for such an individual. "And did you find a host to take the boy?"

Pajonah sighed softly, "yes and no my Lord. Avalyn had a sister, Evelyn. A year or so younger than herself. But the girl was taken by your father for Mord'Sith training sixteen years ago. I… I don't believe she survived the training my Lord."

Rahl nodded, "even if she did, Commander, I would not give the child over to a woman who knows not how to take care of him. I would rather him stay here in the Palace where he is safe until he is old enough to venture out on his own. But enough of this harrowing tale. Please Commander. I beg it of you. Return to your families quarters inside these walls. Have a good meal, play with your own children, and bed your wife. Jayden is my responsibility. It is my duty as his protector to tell him the truth."

Pajonah nodded, and though he knew he should offer to stay, the thought of seeing his lovely wife Jael and his twin three year old children was too tempting. He knew if he tried to stay at his master's side that he would only be told to go to them once again. So he took the chance, made his bow, and left the throne room. Leaving the King in his place, shrinking behind him as he headed once more to the grand entree way.

Darken sank once more into his throne; planting his elbows against his knees and burying his face into his hands.

When the time came, Jayden was still at his studies. Darken watched him for a long moment, his brows knit slightly. He was silently debating with himself on if he should tell the child or not. But, the boy deserved to know what happened to his mother. No matter how it would hurt him. Just as he had deserved to know why his mother had been killed. Snædis Rahl had been a beautiful young woman when she was wedded to Panis Rahl. The King who was at the very least twenty five years her senior. Darken never knew where his mother had come from before she came to D'Hara, but he had heard rumours that she had come from Aydindril. The realm of the Confessors and the Wizards. But Snædis was no Confessor. Of that much he was certain. Snædis was a tall woman, standing at least 5'8" tall. Her flesh was soft and though pallid, and had a slight sun kissed complexion at all times; Darken knew it was his mother that he took this trait from. Her hair was long, and cascaded down her back in rivulets of fire. Brilliant fire red. Her eyes were blue-green. But her beauty did not last long, and his memories of her did not last passed his seventh year of life. For good reason.

In the year 3 BCB, when young Darken Rahl was only seven years of age, Panis discovered that his wife of eight years, the flamed haired beauty, had been keeping a deep and dark secret from him. She had lied to him, claiming to be of no magical merit. Until he learned the truth. Snædis was a sorceress; a witch woman. He had hoped for a gifted heir, but one that he could control. Instead she had birthed him. Darken Rahl. The most powerful man in the world, now that the Great Wizard was gone. And so Panis took out his anger on the woman. He had her burned at the stake. He made little Darken watch as her flesh was burned off of her and she screamed in horrible pain. It was a sound that still haunted the King to this day.

But Jayden's mother had not died in the same way. And while it was a brutal death, that was something Darken was certain of, it wasn't _quite _as horrific as that of his own mother. But, Darken had stood waiting too long. Jayden was aware of his presense.

The boy turned to him smiling, "Father Rahl!", but when Jayden saw the bitter smile upon the young King's face, he paused. Father Rahl never gave him that expression. Darken was always smiling when he was with Jayden. Even when the world was heavy on his shoulders, he had a smile for the boy he had taken in. So the lack of warmth behind that smile sent chills down the boy's spine. "Father Rahl? What's wrong?"

"Jayden I…", he paused not knowing what to say. He might have normally been good with words; a master at spinning webs of words, but this was not the same. This was something that would destroy the young boy. And he knew it. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly, "Jayden, I have something I need to tell you."

Jayden's heart fell. He knew that it couldn't be good news. Any fool could see that. He stood up from his desk and walked to the bed in his room, sitting down where it was more comfortable. Just in case.

Darken took that chance, and walked to the bed with deliberately slow steps. He was trying to hold off and keep the boy happy as long as he could. But, all things have to come to an end. He sighed once he reached the bed, and sat beside the child. "Jayden, Commander Pajonah just brought me news from your home." He put his hand upon the child's small, rounded, shoulder.

Jayden could feel the breath hitch in his throat as his heart skipped a beat or two. He prayed to the spirits that his mother was alright.

Darken, unfortunately, had to damped his spirits and dash his hopes. "Your mother was killed a few weeks ago. The Commander did all that he could to save her, but he wasn't in time, and with no Mord'Sith with him to give the Breath of Life, he couldn't bring her back. Jayden I'm so sorry."

The boy was frozen for a long moment. He couldn't even blink. But as the realization of the words sunk it, the tears started to build in his eyes. They started rolling down his slightly podgy cheeks in slow rivulets, before turning into raging torrents. He hiccupped, once, twice, before his sobs came fully. He lowered his face, putting it into his hands as the tears continued to pour. He didn't care what Father Rahl might think of him in this moment. His mother was dead. His mother. The only family that he had left.

Darken's heart flinched, and he bit his lips hard trying to keep himself from remembering the pain he felt when he saw his own mother burned away to a black smouldering crisp. How he had cried, as Jayden was, for days, even when Panis beat the fact that _Rahls don't cry. Rahls don't mourn lying traitors _into him. The lesson had never stuck. Darken was always going to be the kind King, while his father was the tyrant. Darken Rahl would always be the one whom the people came to out of love, while Panis was the one they fled from. He couldn't take the boy's tears any longer and he reached out. Wrapping his arms around the boy's small form he pulled him right up against him. Pulling the ten year old to sit on his lap and bury his face into the warm silks of his summer robes. He kept Jayden close, rubbing his back in slow circles. But he didn't hush the boy, or even seek to. A child was allowed to weep when their parent had been killed.

Jayden could do no more than press as close as he could to the warmth of his teacher. Ignoring whatever Ansleigh might say on the subject, or Mistress Rikki for that matter. Father Rahl offered the comfort, and he was more than needing it. His small fingers tangled themselves into the white silks, gripping tightly. He knew his tears would ruin the fabric, but he was also certain that Darken Rahl was aware of this fact when he pulled him close. Jayden continued to cry for some time. He lost count of how long. But he slowly started to calm; lulled into tranquility by the feeling of his master's hand rubbing his back affectionately. When the tears slowed and finally stop, Jayden just laid close with his cheek against Darken's breast gently. Not wanting to move. Afraid that if he if he did, he would lose the only person he had left. But he had to move. He sighed deeply, still fighting off the last hiccups of his tears. "What am I going to do? I have no where to go now…" He lifted his hand and wiped at his eyes.

Rahl watched him for a moment, before stroking the boy's cheek and forcing him to look up at him. His eyes were gentle. "Jayden, you are more than welcome here. You have always been. I would never ask you to leave when you are so alone.", he smiled sadly. "I would never abandon my new son. Not for anything in this world."

Jayden looked up at him surprised. His eyes still red with the tears, and his flesh tearstained. "Wha, what?"

"I'm aware that you have no one left, and that I am the only one left that you know. I am willing to take you in as my son. Though you will never rule because you are not of Rahl blood, you will always be an adviser to myself, to my heir, and to the family."

Jayden's eyes lit up. This was a wonderful honour, but it was born from such tragedy. He smiled brightly, as bright as he could, before he hugged the King. Careful of the scars beneath the white silks.

Summer soon turned to fall; the autumn was a little dryer than the season before it had been. But the harvest was meek, there was very little grain for the peoples to store for the winter. And the winter was clearly going to be a very bitter one. It could be felt on the air. The wet summer had bred the cold hand of iciness.

Jayden had been officially named the son of Father Rahl. This made him _next _to a Prince. And that title had reached the boy's head. He was a spoiled brat, even if Darken Rahl couldn't see it. But than again, if he saw it, he chose not to do anything about it. The child had after all lost both mother and father under horrible circumstances. The boy deserved to be doted upon, did he not?

Ansleigh and the Mord'Sith didn't think so. But their bitter opinions they kept to themselves. They already knew what their Master would say. _He's just a child! Leave him be and let him be as he will. _

But as December approached, Rahl was quickly seeing a turn in the weather. And not for the better. It was snowing more and more often. The winter cold beyond the measure of other years. Fires, though normally banned, had been allowed throughout the kingdom. As long as they could contain it, each household was allowed to keep the flames burning as long as they could. Even the Peoples Palace harboured hundreds of fires crackling away in the inglenooks. But this also meant another thing.

The Winter Solstice, and the annual Festival of the Stars was quickly approaching. But as the weather further deteriorated, it became utterly apparent that it was not going to be held this year. It was too dangerous for the people to be out in the Plains on the way to the Peoples Palace. It was a ridiculous thought that he would ask them to come when each week the snow killed. But it wasn't only the blizzards that stole lives.

Rahl stood with the scribe, who quickly wrote his words as the King paced back and forth. "People of D'Hara, let it be known that your King has not forgotten you. I am aware that the grain in your stores is failing. I have seen all too well the devastation wrought by the bitter summer that this last year has brought. Plague washes over the lands; your stores are mouldering in your cellars. So, as your devoted King I ask you to forsake your grains. Leave them to rot and use them when you till the soil in the Spring. But do not be concerned; you will have food, and food aplenty. For it will come from my own stores. Each household that is in need will have grain from the Palace Stores.", Darken continued to pace. His eyes were down and his hands moved back and forth from being clasped behind his back and rubbing his chin. Or running over his lip. His dark hair was gathered back and tied with a gold ribbon. The waves fell down to the tops of his shoulder blades; it had grown in the last few months once again.

Ansleigh stood to the side; out of Darken Rahl's sightline. He rolled his eyes. This was getting more and more ridiculous. Father Rahl would starve them all to feed a few peasants. In his mind it was better to let the serfs die. It would be the Creator's will after all. It would weed out the masses and strengthen the heart. The heart that was the very man ordering the contrary. One day there would have to be a major revolution. If Darken Rahl continued to rule as such, he would be invaded. He would be concurred.

It just never occurred to Ansleigh that such a ruler as Darken Rahl could command the forces of the Realm to do as he wished without question. It didn't occur to him that Darken needed not the fear of the people as long as he had their love. A love that came from the deeds, such as feeding the hungry, that he performed.

After a moment's break to reconsider all that he wanted to say, Rahl stared to pace once more. The train of his velvet coat dragging on the floor behind him as he moved. Even with the fires roaring, it was cold in the Peoples Palace. "As you all know, the Festival of the Star is supposed to be approaching before long. And while I respect your days of worship, I must let it be known that the Festival is cancelled for this year. On top of this note I wish to add that while the blizzards are bitter, for they will grow in severity as the winter progresses, that each person remains safely inside their homes. If you must leave your homes, please do not leave your villages. There will be strong legions of soldiers patrolling through the winter, but not as you would expect. If you must leave, than you will be as safe as you can in the weather. But please do not put yourself in danger. I will hold a grand festival on the Spring Equinox in the new year, in place of the Festival of the Stars. You have that to look forward to. Than as your King I wish you all the best, and a safe season. I will see you in the Spring."

The scribe looked up as he finished the last words, to see if Rahl was finished.

Darken simply nodded his head as he kept his hands held behind his back, pacing a few more times. Thinking it all over.

Ansleigh finally found his voice. Arrogant and sarcastic as it might have been. "And just how do you expect to patrol the lands, my Lord? How do you expect to know every needy household gets food?"

Darken paused and turned dark eyes towards the older man. He was glaring slightly. "You question me? Alright Ansleigh, I will play the fool. My best men will patrol because they will be transformed." He turned his eyes to one of the guards in the room, and the Mord'Sith who stood with him.

The guard swallowed nervously, but stepped forward. He had faith in his master, but he was still afraid of the magic. The Mord'Sith on the other hand was used to this sort of trick. She stepped forward without a second thought.

Rahl turned his hand upon the man first. The soldier was overtaken with the magic cast upon him. Surrounded by a swirl of white mist. When the fog fell away it revealed a great winter-white bear. Darken then turned to the Mord'Sith and performed the same trick. When the mist fell away from her, it revealed a cunning little arctic fox. Darken Rahl turned back to Ansleigh. Arrogantly. "Do you question me now?", he turned his hand towards the bear and the fox once more. His hand behind himself as he kept his eyes upon his advisor. The soldier and the Mord'Sith stood straight once more. Human again.

"That is all well and good my Lord, but there is no way to know that the people get the food they need.", he was still indignant. He clearly thought this was all pointless. So what if the snow killed people; Panis Rahl had never cared.

Darken pulled his shoulders back as he clasped his hands behind his back once more. He looked down his dignified nose at the elderly man. "Fine. Than I will accompany the guards myself. I will take the grain myself."

Ansleigh's eyes widened far. Quite taken aback. "You would put yourself in danger? For what? To prove some childish point that you can be loved by all?"

Darken turned his eyes away, and looked back to the Mord'Sith. Ignoring Ansleigh. "Miranda, have a cart made ready with grain."

Miranda, the Mord'Sith who had formerly been the arctic fox, nodded. Bowing her head to Darken. "At once my Lord." She turned on her booted heel and strode out of the throne room.

Two hours later found them all out in the heavily blowing snow. Two polar bears drawing a wagon laden with untainted grain in burlap bags and in clean but cold clay jars. Flanking them were six arctic foxes. Two strong guards and six Mord'Sith. While over head a snowy owl soared easily through the swirling snow. Ducking and rolling when the need came. Darken Rahl.

Ansleigh had remained at the Palace. Forced to take care of the Master's _son. _and the arrogant child didn't like it. Neither did the advisor. They were water and oil. But the only thing that kept them together was the love for their King.

Each village that Darken visited with his small contingency, was beyond thankful for the food they brought. Each family thanked their King in any way they could. But Darken was happy to do it for them. Each father and husband he embraced and clapped them on the back. Each wife and mother he clasped her hand between his and kissed the back of her hand gently. Each kill he hugged and promised a good life to. The food enough was a promise of life. Each pregnant woman he blessed and kissed her belly. Hoping to keep her child and her safe through birth.

It took several weeks, but when the wagon was empty, and the stores of the Palace were low, Rahl finally returned home. The Kingdom fed. And just in time. As he suspected, the blizzards grew worse.

But he discovered a disturbing fact. Normally if he wished to banish foul weather, he could. In the summer he had simply given up; the rain always returned the next day. But these blizzards he could not break. He could not capture a ray of sunshine through the black clouds. He could not alter a thing, and it set a panic through him. One word came to his mind.

Shota.

But there was no use in dwelling in suspicions. There was no way of verifying what he suspected. And then he thought it over. Why would she wish to affect D'Hara as such? There was nothing here for her. So Darken shook the thoughts from his mind.

But he had been right to bar people from wandering from their homes. And yet there were still the few that the patrolling bears and foxes found. They had been taken to the nearest villages for healing. Or if they were further than they were close, they were brought to the Palace for the Healers under Darken's employment to tend to.

Rahl stood with Jayden, locked in an hushed argument. What the topic was, was foolish and therefore didn't matter. But what did matter was that Jayden thought it was alright to argue with the man that ruled the country. The man that had taken him in with the goodness of his heart. "Do not start this with me Jayden! I took you in and gave you shelter and love when there was none left for you!"

That hit Jayden hard. It had caught him off guard. He knew he should have kept his temper to himself, but there were times that he had to expel those emotions. He felt that his _father _was neglecting him. All he ever did was wander the city and tend to those in the care of healers. He kept to his books. Granted, Jayden had advanced far and fast in his training, but he still needed his teacher. "That's not fair, Father Rahl…"

Darken sighed softly, "You're right Jayden. I'm sorry that wasn't kind of me. I of all people know how you feel. I apolog-", but Rahl never finished his statement. The doors of the throne room were pushed open as the soldiers made way for the Mord'Sith. The women carried, slung between them, a woman dressed in brown and gold brocade. A corset with belled sleeves that tied to it. She wore split skirts of the same fabric. Under her corset she wore a white blouse. Under her skirts she wore gray suede breeches and worn soft brown leather boots. She wore a belt over her hips, holding a small dagger. Her hair was long, down her buttocks it seemed (as it hung down to the floor as they carried her). The length caught Darken off guard; only the Mord'Sith, Confessors, and Queens had hair that length. And yet he did not recognize her as either. She was tall, over the height that his mother had been perhaps only an inch different from him. This meant that were she waking she would have stood 5'9" without her slightly heeled boots. She was pretty, from what he could see. But it was hard to tell. Her flesh had a blue tone, and there were ice crystals in her hair. Darken frowned, "What happened?"

The Commander looked up. "We found her frozen under the snow in the Azrith Plains my Lord. We would have taken her to another village, but the Palace was closest. And considering her state I thought it would be wisest-"

Darken held up his right hand; the ring finger and pinky folded down slightly. "There's no need to explain your actions.", he looked to the woman and frowned. After a moment he spoke. "The healers are at capacity…", he trailed off for a moment, reconsidering his idea. But in the end it was the only plan he had. He looked back to their eyes, "Take her to my chambers and lay her by the fire in the day bed. I will do my best to tend to her health."

The Commander nodded. The Mord'Sith carried her off through the halls without another question or order.

Ansleigh only watched on in disgust.


	7. Chapter Six: Prophecy

**Disclaimer: **Devya, and Jayden are the creation of my friend Amber. Darken Rahl, and DHara, Serena and Tarralyn are the creations of Mr. Terry Goodkind. I take absolutely NO credit for these things. I **DO** however own Ansleigh, Mistresses Brionna, Rikki, Miranda, and Candika, as well as the random servants and the few guards roaming about. And of course Tirion. The Great Prophet, Idris, and the Confessor Adilah are a bit tricky. They are copyright to Terry Goodkind, but I named them.

_**Chapter Six: Prophecy**_

_The great prophet was drawing his final breaths. All around knew it to be true. He had given so many foretellings throughout his life that it seemed strange at first that he had not delivered a death bed vision. But their worries were soon put to rest. _

_ The young woman in white, with her long auburn hair falling over her gown, knelt at the side of the Seer's bed. She held his gnarled and ancient hand in her own. Carefully caressing the pallid flesh as she held it close to her heart. "What is it? Idris, what do you see?"_

_ The Prophet's nearly blind eyes gazed off into the distance; he was clearly not with them. Whatever it was he was seeing, was in a reality of it's own. Lost somewhere in time. The cloudy blue eyes matched his sallow face and ashen flesh. He was close now, so close to death that all in the room could taste it. Yet they had to know his last foretelling. His last prediction. "I see a great change in the tide, Mother Confessor."_

_ The woman in white turned to the other women in the bed chambers. The women dressed in black moved away, opening up the space for the wizards to bring forth the scribe. They needed to work quick, and carve the prophecy into the sands of time before it was too late._

_ The scribe held his quill, ready with the nib touching the parchment he held in his arms. Behind him the great wizards of the second order stood. Giller, with his bald head and his long gray beard, stood directly behind him. _

_ Serena turned her pale face one more to the ancient and dying man. The gentle squeeze of her hand urged him to continue his divination. _

_ Finally the Seer found his stony voice, though it trembled with age. His foggy eyes flashed back and forth as he watched the story unfold before his eyes. The great vision that he was having. After a long and anxious moment he finally spoke, setting the fears of his death to ease amongst the Wizards and the Confessors in black. "A child will be born in Brennidon, near the Boundary of the Midlands and Westland. He will be the first True Seeker in a thousand years. This child will rise up, and defeat the greatest evil that there is: Darken Rahl." _

_ A gasp ran through the Confessors that stood behind their leader; the Wizards remained quiet. All but Giller. "When will this come to pass, great Idris?"_

_ But the man did not answer; the light that had been in his eyes had diminished. He was growing cold. _

_ Serena carefully pulled her hand away from his, before resting the elders hands folded upon his frail chest. She quickly straightened his long white hair that was matted in dead man's tangles, and sorted his scraggly beard. She turned to Giller, "We can only assume that it is to come to pass within the next twenty years.", the Mother Confessor turned to one of her subordinates, dressed in black, who was with child. A child they knew to be female. "Adilah,"_

_ The dark haired Confessor looked up from the body of the old man; her hand on her still-small baby bump. "Yes Mother Confessor?"_

_ "When your child is born you will raise her, and take her to the tomb of Devya. The Great Mother Confessor. You will teach her the ways of Devya's life and death. Make sure she knows the way of the Seeker; Truth, Justice, Love, and the way of the Sword of Truth. Teach her the ways of those that came after Devya and Oran. Teach her the ways of the Seeker and the Confessors. When it is time for this Prophecy to come to pass, she will guide the Seeker on the way to victory. Kahlan Amnell will be the hope of the world."_

_ Adilah's eyes were wide, and she looked down upon her growing belly. She closed her eyes, praying that the necklace she wore would do its job. That the bone pendant given to her by the Sorceress Adie, would be enough to make her daughter grow strong. _

_ "May the spirits protect you, Little One.", Serena spoke softly. Speaking for the child that grew within the Confessor's belly. _

When Darken entered his bedchambers, he saw the dark woman laying haphazardly upon the daybed. He rolled his eyes. The Mord'Sith had clearly not cared for her comfort, or her health. The daybed was still close to the open window and not the fire. He sighed a deep breath and unbuckled the gold and ruby clasp of his red velvet overcoat. Easily pulling it from his body and tossing it to the bed as he walked by. He looked down at the young woman for a long moment, wondering silently to himself how she had found herself lost in the Azrith Plains in the middle of winter. Had his decree not been clear? Had he not _begged _the people to stay in their homes when the need was not there to leave? He paused in thought as he looked back down her. His eyes had wandered out the window and into the storm as he had thought. But now his icy irises trailed their way over her tall but frail form and he sighed. "Was the need for flight from your home so great that you had to risk your life?", he whispered softly and shook his head. He walked around her and slipped his hands under her form. He carefully shifted her once more onto the wide mattress of the gold framed daybed. He rearranged her arms and legs, until she was laying in a way in which her own weight would not have her falling off of the furniture. But when he touched her a chill shot through his body and down her spine. If Darken had not seen her slowly rising and falling breast, he would have thought her to be made of ice.

He rubbed his eyes a moment before looking around. There was only one thing to do; move her next to the fireplace. He moved around once again, standing behind her feet and pulling the settee towards the fire; carefully walking backwards. But he grunted a little. He was trying to move the object with the woman upon it slowly, as not to wake her. But the weight of woman and furniture was enough to make the slow movement almost painful. He could feel the fire in his arms as he pulled her slowly.

Jayden walked through the doorway; he never thought to ask or knock any more. Granted he had never seen anything he was not supposed to, it was still utterly rude. One day he would probably be sorry for it. One day he would walk in on his _father _and his favourite Mord'Sith, Mistress Candika, and he would be no doubt regret it for the rest of his life. "Father Rahl?"

Darken spoke through gritted and bared teeth; still trying to be gentle with the sofa as not to wake the woman who laid there. His eyes were squinted close, "Not now Jayden!"

The boy sighed, rolling his eyes. "Fine.", he turned his back on the scene, and walked away. What was so important about some stupid girl anyway?

When Rahl finally manoeuvred the settee to sit by the fire (as he now regretted not letting Jayden stay and forcing him to help), he stood back and looked her over quickly once again. He laid one sizeable hand upon her throat, feeling with two fingers for her pulse. It was weak, but it was there. He sighed in relief. The woman would live no doubt, but it was going to be one horrible trek back to health. He moved his hand and carefully laid it once more upon her forehead, testing for fever. But the touch of her icy flesh sent another chill through him. He quickly withdrew his hand; he didn't like the feeling. He didn't like how cold she was. Darken glanced about the room, and finally saw there was only one solution.

Brushing out his red grenadine skirts he walked towards his own bed, and gathered a number of the excess accent pillows. They all smelled like roses and lemongrass from his cologne, but they were going to have to make do. He tucked them under his strong arms as he returned to the maiden. He started to place them around her, propping her up carefully so she would not be laying flat. So that her back would not lock itself up and cause her pain when she did eventually awaken. He slipped a hand under her head, cradling her skull tenderly, as he lifted her. He slipped a larger gold coloured pillow under her head and shoulders, easing her back down before he carefully laid out her dark hair, and returned to his bedside. He pulled from the bed the velvet and silk covers, leaving only the last top sheet of silver silk. The rest he carried in a large bundle to the day bed. He carefully laid the gold and silver silks over, covering her finally with the midnight blue velvet comforter. Again, all scented with Black Magic.

That night Darken Rahl barely slept, shivering slightly, naked under the thin silk sheet as always. But he didn't care; in the morning he would have the servants make the bed anew with other covers and bedclothes. He'd rather just have the woman warm up. He'd rather see her with a fever; at least that would mean that her body was fighting off the cold once again. That she was trying to heal herself.

Tirion blushed a little as she walked in through the door of the King's Chambers carrying the bundle of fresh bedclothes. She had not been given this task before, it had been her mother's, Mwynwen's, task. But seeing as the older servant was busy with the kitchen staff, the chore had fallen to the young girl. Tirion was maybe seventeen, and pretty in a … plain… sort of sense. Her hair was a mousey brown, and fell just upon her upper breast; short enough to be a servant, and long enough to give beauty. Darken Rahl was not overly concerned with the traditions of hair lengths; as long as they were _mildly _followed. Her eyes were a common brown, and her skin a slightly dirty white. At the moment she also happened to have a smearing of soot upon her face from her mother tapping her cheek to tell her to get going, when she tried to hang back. Trying to put off the task now at hand.

Tirion couldn't help but quickly let her eyes roam over the King as he stood near the bed; his face was turned away momentarily as he looked over at the woman laying in the daybed. She still had not awoken. But Tirion couldn't help but take the moment; her eyes running over his broad shoulders and strong chest. Down his defined abdomen and - she gasped a little. Her eyes had fallen over the scars left exposed as he wore only a pair of black velvet leggings, laying low on his hips. She hadn't meant to let the sound escape, but it had slipped passed her lips before she could halt it.

Rahl's face immediately snapped back to hers.

Tirion nearly dropped the sheets in surprise, but her heart started to calm when she saw he had broken into a gentle smile.

"Ah, I don't believe I've met you before.", he held out his hand to her gently, as he stood not far from her.

Tirion stupidly looked from his eyes, to his offered hand, and back up to his eyes. A deer caught before a barrelling cart.

Darken couldn't help the playful smirk that twisted his lips. His brow raised a little. "It's a hand. You're supposed to take it, dear lady."

Tirion's cheeks took on a bright, nearly unnatural, shade of cherry. She was sure even the tips of her ears were turning scarlet. She shifted the bedclothes into one arm before carefully reaching out and taking his hand. Still afraid, or perhaps embarrassed was the correct word. She had to fight to keep her eyes off of the scars. She didn't want to offend him in anyway. But when her hand had found its way and laid in his warm palm, she found herself lost in his eyes. She smiled softly, matching that of the Kings.

Darken gripped her slender hand carefully, "It's nice to meet you, Miss…", his voice trailed off, questioning her as to her name.

Again she was that deer. She could only stammer, barely able to think while she looked at him. After a lengthy moment of looking at his slightly smirking lips, her name came to her. She cleared her throat with humiliation, "Tirion. My name is Tirion.", her hand was still in his.

He smiled and lifted her hand, kissing it before he spoke. "Than it's nice to meet you, Miss Tirion. But, you have a bit of soot upon your cheek."

Tirion groaned in embarrassment. She took her hand from his and lifted it to brush away the black mark.

Darken half laughed watching her trying to unsuccessfully get the smudge. "Here, let me.", he licked the pad of his right thumb gently and put his fingers upon her jaw. Brushing the wet thumb over the blemish on her cheek a few times, until the black soot vanished.

Tirion was frozen. Her breath had hitched a little. But she cleared her throat and moved the bed clothes back into both arms. Trying to take her mind off of the King and his charming manner before she said (or did) something to get her in trouble. She wasn't worried about trouble with Father Rahl, just with her mother. If her mother found out she had been acting so foolishly while in the presence of the King, well than, she'd never let her do any chore that involved the man again. She moved her way around Darken gently, keeping her eyes low, or upon the bed. "I've brought fresh bedclothes, my Lord."

"I can see that, yes. Thank you Tirion.", Darken smiled as he watched her walk around the far side of his bed. He smirked a little; she was trying to avoid him. He loved this game.

Tirion set the covers down, and pulled the last silver top sheet from the bed, along with the gold silk mattress cover. She bundled them up and put them on the floor at the foot of the bed before she picked up the new black silk mattress cover. The bed was so large that this was going to be difficult for her. But she was going to try. It would just be worse with him watching. She started at the foot of the bed on her side; looping the black silk over the corner of the mattress and folding it beneath. Letting the weight of the bed hold it down and in place. She stretched the silk tightly, moving to the head of the bed and folding the sheet under the mattress in the same way. Here is where things would get tricky. It would take her too long to walk around the bed, and if she did she would have to brush by Father Rahl. She came to her conclusion quickly. She climbed up on the bed and crawled on her knees from the left head corner down to the right foot corner. Stretching the black silk taut before folding it under the mattress corner. She did the same with the top right corner.

Darken raise a brow, watching her. He wondered why, when she was at the head of the bed the first time, she did not tuck the right side under. But, it was a minor detail, and it was one that amused him. He watched her fight with the gold top sheet for a moment; watching the young servant girl throw it several times. Trying to force it to reach his side of the bed and make it lay flat. After a moment he laughed and caught the other side, pulling it tight and tucking it under the mattress with the black mattress cover on the right side of the bed. He brought it up to the head, parallel with Tirion.

The girl was in shock. Thinking only to herself _oh spirits! Please don't let mother walk in and catch us! If she thinks I asked him for his help she'll have my ears!_

Thankfully Mwynwen never came into the King's Chambers. Whatever she was busy with in the Kitchens, had been enough to keep her away. It had taken some time, but with Darken's help Tirion managed to make the bed properly. All six gold and black silk sheets, and the crimson velvet comforter.

Darken turned to Tirion, once they finished brushing the wrinkles from the soft crimson comforter. "Tirion."

The young girl looked up quickly, and froze in place when she saw Darken Rahl approaching her once more.

He was smiling when he reached her. He lifted his right hand once again and cupped her cheek gently. His fingertips tickling her earlobe under her hair. He watched her eyes for a moment before he leaned in and laid his lips over hers. Giving her a tender and chaste kiss. He spoke softly when he pulled back from her, "Thank you, Tirion."

Tirion had froze in place when he touched his lips to hers. She had finally relaxed and begun to enjoy the taste of his lips when he pulled away from her. A pink flush came to her cheeks once more. She lowered her head and curtsied to him in respect, "There is no need to thank me, Father Rahl. Now if you don't mind, I had best be on my way. I wouldn't want to upset my mother.", she just wanted to leave before she did or said something stupid.

He nodded understanding. "Of course my dear. Tell your mother I enjoyed the company.", with a smirk, he sent her off.

Tirion was blushing horribly to herself as she left with the used silk sheets in her arms. She tried to hide her face behind the and her hair as she walked through the halls. Her mother was going have a field day.

Jayden once more walked through the doorway from his room into Rahl's. The sound of Tirion making the bed had awoken him. He barely glanced to the woman in the settee as he walked once more towards his teacher. "Father Rahl?"

Darken turned his eyes to the boy, "What is it Jay-", but he was interrupted. The previously frozen woman had just let out a death rattle. A sound he knew too well. She had just lost her life. "No!"

"Father Rahl I-"

"Not NOW Jayden!", Darken pushed the blonde boy to the side, meaning to be gentle but not knowing his own strength, as he bolted around the bed and to the woman's side. He knelt down and looked her over. Quickly feeling for her pulse. But he found nothing.

Now, he could either let her remain dead, or he could try to save her. He thought the choice was wholly obvious.

Jayden grumbled a little, getting fed up. It was always _something _wasn't it? First it was Darken Rahl _having _to join the Guards and the Mord'Sith to deliver the grain. It just _had _to be done. He just _had _to leave his "son" alone with Ansleigh and the other nobels that thought they knew better than the King, didn't he? And then he just _had _to take care of this woman when it was clear to the boy that there was no saving her. And now he just _had _to throw him out of the way for her. So Jayden turned his back and walked away once more.

Darken Rahl still had time. He knew what to do; he had made sure that the Mord'Sith had taught him this magic . He was a healer when the time came and he was needed (usually only when the Healing wing was absolutely full, as it was now), and he knew it would be worthwhile to know this last bit of magic. He gathered it up from his soul. The white hot mist swirling in the back of his throat near his uvula. He leaned close to the woman and brushed his fingers over her chin. Carefully opening his jaw and leaning close. So close that his lips nearly brushed hers as he parted them. The Breath of Life snaked its way from his soul and into hers. He pulled back from her, just in time to watch her take a deep inhale as she returned to the Land of the Living. But she did not wake.

At least she was alive.

The following week passed in much the same way. Darken Rahl watched the woman like a hawk, checking her twice hourly to make sure she was still alive. During this time he kept pushing Jayden away. It's not that he didn't love and care for his new son, but the boy had books to read and other people to spend time with. There were many children in the walls of the city that he could play with. Jayden did not need him like the poor woman did. He was the only one watching over her.

On the eve of her seventh night in the Peoples Palace, her eyes finally started to flutter. It took time, but the maiden started to come to life. Darken had laid abed, reading to himself, when he heard her soft groan. He quickly closed his book and got up from the bed, walking around her. His midnight and silver grenadine and velvet skirts flowing around him with every step. He knelt at the side of the daybed as he looked up at the young woman. He reached up and gently brushed one of her dark tresses back from her eyes. She groaned again, whether from pain or confusion he was not sure.

"Nn…where am I?", her voice was groggy and quiet, but she was easy enough to understand as she slowly started to push her way into a sitting position.

Darken brushed his fingers over her cheek gently. She flinched. "You're in the King's Chambers of the Peoples Palace."

She turned her blue eyes towards him, her face moving against his palm. At first all she could see was a blur of flesh and midnight blue. But slowly he came into focus. She gasped a little when she saw the handsome face of the young man. His long chocolate locks were dancing upon his breast, just above his nipples. Only royalty to could wear their hair that long. His eyes were clear and blue. Icy, yet kind. He was dressed in a sleeveless waistcoat of cobalt grenadine; the sleeves lined in silver trim, as well as the torso. The silver trimming making two ornate, back to back, Rs. For the House of Rahl. His waistcoat was close fitting, fitted right flat against his flesh. It was open down to his upper abdomen. Exposing a sliver of his tan chest. The skirts of his robes were the same cobalt grenadine; the splits of the petals lined in blue and silver flowered brocade. The underskirts were a sapphire blue velvet. And clearly supple to the touch. She raked her eyes up and down his person until it hit her. She jolted. "Darken Rahl."

He nodded his head gently, "Yes Miss. I am Darken Rahl. There's no need to fear; you've been here for well over a week now. You have been here in this bed while I've healed you.", he continued to sit, kneeling at her side.

But she was trying to get up, pushing him back gently. She was weak, but she still tried to get up. "I can't stay here, I have to go. My family will be missing me."

But Darken put his hands gently upon her shoulders, easing her back down to the comfort of the divan. "Calm yourself miss; you are weak still. There is still much to be done before you are returned to health. You must rest, you've only just awoken for the first time."

She looked fiercely into his eyes, her irises flashing back and forth between his. Trying to see if he was lying to her. When she started to suspect that he was in fact telling the truth, she relaxed a little. But, she was still on edge.

"Now that I think of it, you know my name, but I do not have the same satisfaction of knowing yours. If I am to give you my hospitality I think the least you could do is give me that small pleasure.", he smirked a little, whether he meant to or not. It was a little early to be playing these games with the woman.

She looked him over for a moment, wondering as to why he was smirking. But she let it go. "Tarralyn. My name is Tarralyn."

"Ahhh Tarralyn. What a pretty name.", Darken smiled as he stood up once more.

Tarralyn followed him with her eyes as she lay in his daybed.

He lifted the mangled set of bedclothes that she had tossed aside when she tried to get up, and laid them over her once more. He leaned down and brushed his lips against her forehead as he would a child.

Tarralyn froze for a moment. Surprised by the tender touch. But, as soon as she felt the warmth of the covers around her once more, sleep started calling to her. Her eyelids grew heavy, and the urge to stay awake was soon quelled. She fell into warm dreams, instead of the frozen blackness that had clutched her before.

Tarralyn didn't like it. She could take care of herself. She didn't need the King, of all people, to be running about, fussing over her, like a chicken without his head.

"Lord Rahl-", she sighed when she saw he was doing everything but listening to her. He had been like this since she woke up that night three weeks ago. "LORD RAHL!"

Darken nearly leapt out of his flesh. He would have if it had been at all possible. What was possible, on the other hand, was what he had done. He had thrown everything on the platter he was carrying, up into the air. The vials of medicine came crashing down and shattered on the floor. He sighed and put the silver platter on his bed as he knelt down and started to pick up the pieces of lead crystal glass. He didn't want her or anyone else for that matter cut by the sharp little shards. "What is it Tarralyn?"

She cringed a little as she watched the accident unfold. "Sorry…", she got up from the daybed and walked to him, kneeling in front of him to help him pick up each little piece. "I just wanted to ask you if I could get out of that bed yet. I'm bored and you're running around looking after me when I have neither asked it of you, or needed it."

Darken rolled his eyes a little, "You couldn't ask for it when you were nearly a frozen corpse. And yes, you do need it. You needed it when I called you back from death."

Her brows knit together and she paused her hands as she looked at him. Worry in her eyes. "You what?"

He looked up at her and shrugged it off as he went back to picking up glass. "I gave you the Breath of Life. I called your soul back from the Underworld before you could be a permanent resident of the Keeper's realm."

Her brows were still knit; she couldn't really believe her ears. "You would do that for me? You didn't even know me."

Darken looked up to her, "Why would I not? Why would I have to know you? What I know is that yours was a life entrusted to me. I would have had no right not to do everything I could to save you. Fortunately I had Mistress Candika teach me the Breath in order to be a better Healer."

She shrugged her shoulders a little; her long brown hair flowing over them. "My father never had too many humane words about you or your father, and yet you've only been kind to me."

"Oh? And who is your father that he might think such things?", it didn't really concern him, he was only making conversation.

Tarralyn shrugged easily. "No one. Just an old man set in his ways. If I tried to tell him all that you've done for me, he would never believe me. Course, he would never believe me if I told him any royal of any state had brought me in to care for .", she smiled tenderly back at Father Rahl.

Darken smiled and went back to picking glass, but quickly stopped and gasped when he sliced his finger open. He should have been paying attention. Yes, he knew that already.

Tarralyn reached out and took his hand gently. Holding his wounded index finger slightly apart from the others, before she kissed it. Her soft lips removed the blood, and the wound quickly healed over.

Rahl was looking at her in shock for two reasons. One: she had kissed his finger. Two: she had healed his scratch. "You have magic…"

She shrugged, "Only a little. I can do things like that, but not much more."

Darken beamed gently. "Well, thank you anyway.", he put his hand into her hair and cradled the base of her skull. He took his chance and pulled her a little closer, over the mess that lay between them on the floor, and pressed his lips to hers.

Tarralyn's eyes widened, but she closed them again swiftly. Over her shock. She kissed him back, putting one hand into his long hair to match his, the other gripping the fabric over his firm breast. The young woman matched his kiss. It wasn't one sided.

Darken smirked slightly against her lips and carefully brought her up to her feet as he stood once more. Moving them away from the muddle of shattered glass and spilled medicines. He wrapped his arms around her lean waist and pulled her up against his form. Kissing her with a bit more intenseness.

Tarralyn wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him further into their kiss as her fingers played with his hair. She thrust herself against his chest as he pulled her against his firm body. Her hand pulled out of his hair, and raked its way down his back, and gripped his backside.

Their kiss quickly heating up.

They weren't sure where it came from. But they certainly enjoyed it.

The next week passed in much of the same matter. All the while he was taking care of her, Tarralyn had been want to admit that she had started to fall in love with the King of D'Hara. She thought, at first, that it was only because he _was _taking care of her. But that moment that he kissed her, the reasons for which she was still uncertain, her heart had burst in her chest.

Tarralyn liked sharing his bed. For more than just pleasure of course. She loved laying beside his warm person, and cuddling into him when she couldn't sleep. And Darken didn't seem to mind being woken up to hold her. Because it usually lead to them cuddling before falling back asleep. Or to other things.

Ansleigh on the other hand was getting more and more fed up with the situation. The winter was passing, spring was arriving, and Darken Rahl was making no plans for a Spring Equinox festival. And because it was his idea, it was his task and his alone. The old advisor wanted nothing to do with it.

Darken Rahl was anything but a rabid wolf like the ruler of D'Hara should be. He was never the wolf, but the lamb. And that lamb was going to be slaughtered if it didn't toughen up.

And that's when more bad news came.

Coming like a banshee across the Azrith Plains, from the North west, the rider came. Out of the Rang'Shada mountains. Nightwisp in hand to break the Boundary apart for the entrance to D'Hara.

A rider like that was never a good sign. In fact the last time someone like that had shown up, it had meant that the mature advisor had to deal with the blonde little brat. So his mother had died, so what? So had his and he didn't whine to the King about it. So did the Kings and he- well, he did cry about it.

Ansleigh shook his head, trying to push those thoughts away as the man ran towards him. Now running through the throne room.

"Father Rahl! Father R-where is Father Rahl?"

"Abed with his whore I suspect. What is it, what do you want?" Ansleigh sighed, he knew this was going to be bad. He just didn't know how bad.

The man was panting softly; and wearing the colours of Aydindril. "I have come from Aydindril. As fast as I could ride. The Prophet, Idris, has died and given his last foretelling."

Ansleigh raised a white brow boredly. "And this should concern either myself or the Father Rahl?"

The man stared at him for a moment. Ansleigh should know that if he had raced here as fast as he could, that there was reason for it.

"I have commit Treason against the Mother Confessor and the Midland Council, so YES it should concern both of you!"

"Than spit it out!"

"Idris gave one last foretelling; a Great Prophecy for our time. A Seeker will rise up, and defeat Darken Rahl."

Ansleigh stared at him in shock. "Pardon?"

"I said a Seeker will-"

"I HEARD WHAT YOU SAID!", Ansleigh barked. This was exactly what he had feared for the last fifteen years. He rubbed his white haired temples and tried to calm himself. "Do not tell Father Rahl, it will only worry him.", ignoring the rider, the advisor turned to Mistress Brionna. "I have a task for you."

The woman in red leather stalked into the room, followed by her sisters. Her long honey coloured braid hung heavily down her back. Her boot heels were clicking wildly loudly, but she didn't care. She marched around the left side of the massive bed, her sisters following her. When she stopped, she braced her feet (those behind her fanned out to give her backup). In her hand she held a cold metal object. Open. With one gloved hand she reached down and grabbed his long dark hair, ripping him up from his resting position. She took the chance and with one hand locked the Rada'han around his throat.

Darken gasped in pain as he was lifted from the bed by her violent grip. He fought her off, but stopped in horror when he heard the click and felt the familiar cool weight of the magic blocking collar.

Tarralyn was covering herself in the sheets of the bed; screaming his name wanting to reach out for him.

Brionna drew her agiel. The collar might block him from using his magic, but it still flowed through his blood. As long as the han was inside of him, her torturous weapon would work. Would bring pain. She rammed it into the King's side, and he screamed in pain as she pulled him from his bed.

Tarralyn reached out, trying to grab Darken's hand, but for that insolence, she was beaten back by the other Sisters of the Agiel.

Darken was pulled, naked, from his bed as a heavy chain was attached to the Rada'han. Mistress Brionna wrapped it around her gloved her fist and jerked him forward. He gasped, his throat briefly crushed from the might of the collar being pulled. His hands shot up, trying to pull it loose, even though he knew it was useless. He had tried so many times in his youth. It was no different now. Except then the Mord'Sith did not have control over the collar. Brionna jerked the chain harder when the King did not follow. Wheezing, Darken nearly fell to the floor, but managed to steady himself. Screaming in pain as Mistress Rikki pressed her agiel into his back. His spine curled back, arching his body.

Tarralyn leapt from the bed, taking the covers with her. She wanted to save him with magic; but she knew any magic turned against a Mord'Sith would be captured and used upon her. She wanted to charge forward but the pain caused by the agiels terrified her. She could do nothing as they dragged the monarch from his chambers. Parading him, naked, down the halls of the Peoples Palace as nothing but a trophy. When the Mord'Sith dragged him from the room, she chased them, holding the covers close to her naked body. She was almost too late; the Sisters had pulled him into the front hall, and Brionna was just leading them out of the palace entrance out into the darkness. All she could do was scream out his name in horror, "DARKEN!"

Darken turned his head, looking back at her with fear in his eyes, before the choke chain was pulled again. Forcing him to look forward as he stumbled down the stairs and into the darkness.

Tarralyn ran back into the Palace. Back into the throne room. She stood before Ansleigh, beyond angry. The fire dancing behind her eyes. "What have you done?"

He looked up at her, from where he sat in Darken Rahl's throne. He was now the ruling entity. "Giving this Kingdom the ruler it deserves."

She narrowed her eyes angrily. The candles flickered around the room; but the windows and the main doors were still open.

With the help of Rikki, Candika, and the others, Brionna loaded him into a covered cart. Throwing him in and locking the chain to the side of the wooden vehicle . Taking the slack out of the links so that he could just barely lay down on his back. That, and sitting were all he could manage. Any other position and he would throttle himself.

Mistress Brionna climbed up into the driver's bench of the cart, and took hold of the reigns of the two bay and white shire horse. She flicked the reigns hard, "Yah!", and the cart took off. Jostling off at a high speed into the night. Into the east.


	8. Chapter Seven: Mord'Sith Rule

**Disclaimer: **Devya, and Jayden are the creation of my friend Amber. Darken Rahl, and DHara, Serena and Tarralyn are the creations of Mr. Terry Goodkind. I take absolutely NO credit for these things. I **DO** however own Ansleigh, Mistresses Brionna, and Evelyn, as well as the random servants and the few guards roaming about. I also own the Forest of Weeping Moss , the Sisters of Destiny, the Kingdom of D'Auvael, and the Temple of Destinies. The other sisters of the Temple, being Rebecca, Amberlee, Justine, and others that are at the moment unnamed are technically copyright themselves; the wonderful members of .com/darkendestinies/ . This also applies with the personal guard, Commander Nightshade.

_**Chapter Seven: **_**Mord'Sith Rule**

The Temple of Destinies was the last sanctuary of the Mord'Sith in the East. The Sisters of the temple were considered, above all their counterparts, to be the most cruel. The reasoning behind this was the simple fact that the other Temples, Jondralyn, the Peoples Palace, etc., were all policed by the King or one of his subordinates. But, because of the great distance between the center hub of D'Hara, and it's distant temple, the Sisters of Destiny went unchecked. They were neither corrected, or stopped in their brutality. This had gone on for generations innumerable. No one had ever heard of the Temple of Destinies, until they were captured to be brought there. And then they squealed like swine to be butchered.

Of all the sisters in the Temple of Destinies, the most malicious and merciless, was the ruling matriarch. Mistress Evelyn. Evelyn was a tall, and well built, woman. Her body was lean but had curves enough to bring her strength. Her long nearly black hair was, as the rest of the good sisters, pulled back and away from her face. Braided tightly down her back. Her eyes were bluish-violet, nearly black. They held no warmth.

Darken Rahl had had the bliss of being completely unaware that this temple existed. That was for good reason; the Sisters of Destiny were rarely called upon for their _talents_. The reason was a decent one; these women were only brought into the light of Kings passed when they had need of destroying every last shred of humanity within a prisoner. These women were not the Mord'Sith that patrolled the lands and the halls of the Peoples Palace. In comparison, the Mistresses Rikki, Candika, and Miranda, etc., were gentle. In comparison they were kind. In comparison they had a heart left in their chest.

Mistress Evelyn was not so.

The caravan had been travelling for three weeks at the top speed of the shire horses. Those three weeks had not been kind to Darken Rahl; when they moved by day and by night, he was drugged to keep him from attempting any escape. He had learned this the hard way the first day. He had pulled from the side of the vehicle the chain containing him. He had attempted to moved from the cart once it slowed down for the horses to rest. But he had been caught.

Mistress Brionna had caught up to him, and beat him senseless with her agiel. After the beating he wasn't even sure of his own name for several hours. The excruciating pain he had thought at first he could fight against. But he was so desperately wrong. After that, even if he could have escaped, he doubted he would try. At lest not while in the company of Brionna. But what worse of a treason could there have been? Mistress Brionna had been his personal protector, just as Mistress Rikki. Than again, the Mord'Sith Candika had been his favourite, and yet she had aided Brionna in his capture, and transportation from the palace. He couldn't understand it.

When at last the Mord'Sith and her royal cargo passed from the east, through the Forest of the Weeping Moss, and passed the boarder of the long conquered D'Auvaelian Kingdom (which was now for the most part also run by D'Hara), they reached the Temple of Destinies. Hidden away, deep in an ancient forest of moss covered Balli trees.

Mistress Evelyn stood ominously before the temple. Her arms folded over her blood red leather cover chest; her feet braced just beyond shoulder width apart. Her face was a mask of cruelty. To her left stood her personal guard, Commander Nightshade. The Mord'Sith's gaze was that of a predatory cat, watching her prey come right under her claws. Ready for attack.

Brionna halted the horses, who continued to prance and paw at the mossy ground uncomfortably. They sensed the evil of this place, and wanted to leave as quickly as possible. They chomped at their bits, but Brionna paid them no attention as she moved, leaping from the driver's bench and down the distance to the earth. She bowed her head to the higher ranking Mistress who stood watching; unblinking, as she walked around the cart. She grabbed the canvas covering and ripped it off, revealing the unconscious man inside. "Mistress Evelyn I present you with -"

"I know what he is!", her voice was hard and cold. She unfolded her arms, marching forward as she drew her whining agiel from her hip.

Brionna's eyes widened a little, but she assumed the agiel was meant for the cargo which she had brought with her. She couldn't have been more wrong.

Evelyn arched her arm back and cracked Brionna with the singing weapon. The force sent Brionna down to the earth gasping. "You beat him on your journey!"

"Yes, but only because he was trying to escape!", Brionna spit the blood from her mouth and ran her tongue along the inside; searching for the cause of the crimson flow. Finally finding she had bit the inside of her cheek when she was struck.

"You dared to undermined me?" Evelyn aimed a hard kick, knocking the other woman off her balance and onto her back. She slammed her booted foot down onto her chest, glaring down at her. The agiel whining all the louder. Begging to be used.

Brionna coughed, "No Mistress. I thought I was helping you."

Evelyn glared down at her and lifted her boot. She kicked the subsidiary Mord'Sith once more, before she put the agiel back into it's holster upon her thigh. She turned, glaring to the Commander. "Nightshade! Unshackled our _guest _and bring him into the Temple!"

The Commander merely nodded, looking to the unconscious man. It was treason and he knew it, but he would never go against his Mistress. To go against her meant unimaginable pain. Worse than what the other Sisters would deal. Evelyn was wholly broken. No shred of humanity left inside of her. At least her sisters, who knew cruelty beyond measure, knew when it was best to give the victim a slight break. But, Evelyn was not her sisters. Nightshade stalked forward, grabbing the chain connected to the vile collar which the diminished King wore around his throat. He jerked it hard, and the man gasped, forced out of his unconscious state by the need to breathe. But he was so weak already that he did not stay awake long. Instead Darken Rahl had to be carried like a sack of root vegetables.

Evelyn watched as the man was thrown down onto the cold stone floor. Rahl groaned a little, but it was barely audible over the other screams echoing through the stone prison. The dark eyed Mord'Sith moved, bracing herself over him. Her feet on either side of his bruised torso; effectively boxing him in. Beneath her, he was still nearly completely lost to the waking world. Above him she was just a barely visible blur of red leathers and black hair. She leaned down over him; he could barely contemplate why. Evelyn dug her gloved fingers painfully into his matted and dirty long dark locks. She gripped his hair near his scalp and lifted him up by it. Rahl cringed in pain, trying not to let out a sound of shock or pain. "A lowly worm of your being doesn't deserve to wear the hair of royalty! Maggot!" She threw him back down heavily. Darken barely had time or the mind to save himself. Barely catching himself on tired arms before he hit his head off of the flagstone flooring. Evelyn turned her head, glancing back over her shoulder. "Mistress Amberlee!"

The shorter Mord'Sith, with hair so black it shone blue in the light, stepped forward from her sisters. She stood at attention, careful not to look into her Mistress' eyes for too long. She glanced down at their new toy, before looking back the Mord'Sith that had braced herself over him. "Yes Mistress?"

Evelyn turned her head, looking back down at the sad excuse of a man between her booted feet. "Fetch the shears."

The woman with the harlequin green eyes nodded her head, "Yes Mistress Evelyn." She turned, and left the room while the other Mord'Sith started to move in; trapping the young man. When Amberlee returned, she held in her hand a pair of rusted, and filthy, scissors.

Evelyn turned her head to the side, looking to another woman. "Mistress Justine!"

The woman with the long blond braid and blue-green eyes looked up from the face of their once Master. As the others, she was emotionless. They had a job to do, and it would not bother her. As it would not bother the Mistresses Amberlee, Rebecca, Evelyn, and the others lurking about in the background. In all there were eighteen Mord'Sith in this temple, and one male guard. Only because other Guards did not last long before they tried to go against Mistress Evelyn. But, Justine raised her eyes waiting for the woman to give her her orders.

"Keep him down."

Justine gave a curt nod and knelt down. Putting her gloved hands upon Darken's broad shoulders. She pushed him down forcefully; causing him to lay with his aching back on the cold floor. His blue eyes staring up at her. She knew he was barely aware of what was happening. That's what made this so fun. He would awake later to a nasty little surprise. The blonde Mord'Sith rammed her knee into his side, keeping him steady as he let out a long and pained groan.

Evelyn wrapped his chain painfully tightly around her gloved hand, tightening it as far as it would go before it forced his head up off of the icy floor. Tight enough that he could barely breathe, but so that he wouldn't die on them. She kept her dead eyes on his. "Mistress Amberlee. Cut his hair."

Amberlee gave her Mistress a quick nod and knelt at Father Rahl's side. Thrusting her gloved fingers agonizingly into his dark hair. Grabbing fistfuls of the once beautiful locks and cutting them with the ancient shears.

Darken passed out from exhaustion before long. He didn't have to bear witness to the desecration they had committed.

Tarralyn sat nervously on the bed in the King's Chambers. Darken Rahl had not been seen, or heard from in over three weeks. She was terrified. For him, for the country, for Jayden, and to a lesser extent for herself. She wanted to believe that he was alright, but the fear burned through her. It ignited her blood and hounded her dreams every time she fell asleep. She could only picture the scene from that night, playing over and over again in her mind. She wished she had done something to save him. He had been her lover, why had she not acted out?

Self-preservation she supposed. She had been so selfish. What of her? She was not important enough to need to be saved. Darken Rahl was. He was all that stood between D'Hara and amalgamation into the growing darker Empires that festered through the Old World. He was the gateway that evil could not pass.

Ansleigh had taken over the rule of the Kingdom. Whatever had been done, had been by his hand. And while she knew that her lover had not been killed (for she could still sense his presence through the minimal magic that she possessed), she feared that it was only for the time being. Tarralyn had seen ravens come and go from the palace twice a week since he had vanished. This was a foreboding sense of doom in her belly. Ravens were not native to D'Hara, and the Boundary prevented any from coming through from the Midlands. The only ravens in the Kingdom were the Mord'Sith who used their King's magic. Which had purposely been captured from him in a time passed, under his permission, and was now useable by all Mord'Sith.

Only Mord'Sith were ravens. But if the Mord'Sith came, where was the great hawk or owl that flew amongst their flock. Where was Darken Rahl?

Tarralyn sat nervously on the bed in the King's Chambers. Her leg was bouncing up and down slightly; a nervous tick as she chewed at her nail. She was still not well from being frozen. It was going to take her some time to recover fully. At least she thought so. But she couldn't ignore what the healers had told her that morning. Even if she wanted to. Even if it would have been easier. But her thoughts were shattered when Jayden crept up beside her.

Jayden had not liked the young woman when Rahl was present with them; he felt betrayed for the pretty face. But now that this master, his teacher, his _father _was gone, she was all he had left to bond with. She was the only one she could trust. He came and sat up on the bed with her, lifting her arm and moving closer. Laying his cheek against her shoulder. Forcing her to hold him with her arm draped about her. "Why are you so nervous?"

Tarralyn looked to him, her dark brows knitting. "I fear for the Father Rahl. I fear that something terrible has befallen him, when I should have saved him."

"But Father Rahl always told me that any magic used against a Mord'Sith would be captured and turned back against the original wielder.", his blonde brows furrowed as he looked to her confused. He didn't seem to understand what she had been implying.

"I know Jayden. I should have faced that fate if it meant saving him. I should have just done what was in my mind. Even if I would not have been successful, at least he would have known that I had tried to save him."

"But Miss. Tarralyn, I'm sure he knows you care for him."

She sighed softly, looking down to the floor a moment. Her mind racing. "I certainly hope so. Because if he doesn't he will think me a traitor.", she looked back up into Jayden's wholly confused eyes.

"Why would he think you a traitor…", he was getting more and suspicious of the young woman once again. His D'Haran blue eyes narrowed as he looked into hers.

"Jayden, neither you or I are safe here. Not with Ansleigh upon Darken's throne. You and I both know that Ansleigh is responsible for the real King's disappearance. And, we both know that the advisor likes neither of us."

Jayden sighed a little. He had to admit that the older man always glared at him, from the very first day he was brought before the King's court.

"Jayden, I _have_to run before it's too late. Before he learns of what I have begged the healers not to tell him. Not to tell anyone."

Jayden's eyes narrowed once again. He was apprehensive of the woman. He would be for some time.

"Jayden… you must promise me that you will tell no one. Not even Father Rahl should he return."

The boy stared back at her. How could she ask that of him? How? He didn't know if he could keep secrets from those drilling blue eyes. Even when he was not breaking the rules the King's eyes always make him confess to the simplest of atrocities. He didn't answer her, unable to, before she continued.

"Jayden I am with child. Darken Rahl's child. Ansleigh must never know. It is better if Father Rahl himself did not know. If he were to know, then Ansleigh would learn of it. And he would hunt me down and destroy my babe. I ask you to come with me. We will flee with through the Boundary, and through the Midlands. And when we reach my father's home in Brennidon, we will live with him. I will take you in as my son. Jayden, with me you will be safe from the horrors that this Kingdom is falling into. I fear that if you remain here that your fate will be dark." Tarralyn had laid her hand over her still nearly imperceptible baby bump.

The boy stared at her for a long moment, before looking down at her stomach, and back up into her face. His eyes narrowed darkly. "You would abandoned the father of your child when he needs you most? Again?"

Tarralyn was hurt, "I see you will not be joining. But Jayden I do not run from fear for myself, or from a selfish urge. I run to protect the child growing inside me. I run to protect the future of D'Hara."

Jayden pushed away from her, and got up from the bed. "Think what you want. Ansleigh was right; you are just a whore." He spit at her feet and walked back into his own bedchambers.

There was a horrible, aching, burning in his shoulders. It pulled at him, slowly bringing him out of his unconscious state.

Mistress Evelyn had had the Mistresses Justine and Rebecca shackled the former King by his wrists. He hung naked above a stinking deep pit full of human excrement and remains. He was no different than any of the other men in the Temple now that he was hung up defenceless. He was no different now that his once silky tresses had been cut from him, leaving ragged and choppy hair an inch long, give or take, sticking out from his head. It was filthy with sweat and dirt from the inside of the cart. He was sweating from the heat in the temple, and he smelt horribly from his imprisonment. The only difference between him now, and the next man, was the Rada'han locked around his tan throat. The collar blocked the magic from his use. But that magic, which still continued to flow throughout his veins, also happened to give power to the Mord'Sith. As long as he was alive, their agiels would be a horrible weapon to be used against him. His own magic was going to be his greatest torture.

Mistress Evelyn stood on the ring surrounding the pit beneath her _guest. _Her feet braced to keep her balanced. She had her agiel in hand as she ruthlessly raked her eyes up and down his form. The weapon was singing, wanting to be used. Wanting to inflict pain. It practically had a mind of its own. Her lips were pursed as she drew her eyes lower over his form. And her lips twitched. Smirking in sarcastic amusement as she snorted a little. She'd found one means to an end. The burn scars covering most of his left side. Covering from his mid abdomen, down the left side to his mid-thigh. They even covered certain _endowments_. She lifted the hand that did not hold the agiel, and scraped her sharp nails through her gloves over his scars. As hard as she could to get his attention.

In his unconscious state Darken Rahl cringed, crying out in pain. But he did not wake.

Evelyn had had enough of this stupid game. He was going to wake up. And he was going to wake up **now**. The Mord'Sith arched her arm back, and brought her agiel down hard. Bashing his jaw with her weapon with all the strength in her body.

Darken instantly awoke, gasping in pain and jerking against the chains that bound him. The iron links rattled above him in a symphony to pain.

Evelyn arched her arm back and struck him again, before barking into his face. Her voice was low and hard, "You will not move or make a sound unless I tell you to! Is that clear?", she held the singing weapon threateningly.

Darken was panting in the residual pain, and shock from the blows. "You cannot do this, I'm your-"

Evelyn's eyes lit up cruelly as they widened with anger. Her pet was going to learn quickly not to think such foolish thoughts. With the force of her body she rammed the tip of her agiel into his toned belly. Even the lightest touch brought excruciating pain, and she was putting all the pressure she could into that narrow point.

He squeezed his eyes tight; tears of pain building up behind his closed eye lids as he jerked against the shackles. His flesh was positively on fire. He would have sworn it was the ball of Wizard's Fire once again. His belly erupted in red and black and welts from the touch of the agiel.

She pulled it back after a short moment. That was enough pain to teach him a lesson. She panted hard; the agiel had brought the same pain to her as her victim. But unlike the King, she was trained to withstand it without a second thought to it. Hence the leather gloves that dulled the sensation if only just a little. "Tell me how much it hurts!"

Panting deeply, Darken lowered his jaw once more, slowly opening his eyes and letting the tears of pain slip down his filthy cheeks and cut the grime. He gazed into her eyes, before speaking defiantly, even if it was a bad idea. "I will not be broken by you!"

Evelyn's face contorted in anger and she brandished the agiel once more. "I can injure you in ways you cannot imagine, _Father Rahl_," she mockingly threw his official title out of her mouth. It meant nothing to her.

He stared back at her, disobediently.

Her dark eyes narrowed dangerously. "You have never known the meaning of pain. I will teach you a lesson. I will teach you your place!" She touched the end of the weapon to the scars upon his hip. Pressing it into place as her eyes locked with his.

His eyes widened far. He was so horribly in pain that he couldn't even make a sound to scream. He wanted to cough from the pain, try and drown it out. But there was no denying it as the chains shook with his involuntary attempts to escape the woman. The burns were turning bright red with the prolonged touch of the torture rod.

Evelyn pulled her weapon back and looked into his eyes again. "You will call me Mistress Evelyn! And you, Darken Rahl, will be my obedient slave."

Tarralyn ran. Running as fast as she could. She had stolen a horse from the stables. It was a common enough of a horse; a bay gelding that she prayed would go unmissed. At least until she was through the Boundary. If she could get through the Boundary that divided D'Hara from the Midlands, she would be safe.

Her cloak was pulled close, the hood high as she galloped over the Azrith Plains. Retreating from the Peoples Palace and fleeing towards the Boundary. If she could just get across before Ansleigh noticed her missing, than she could take her time travelling through the Midlands. There was no rush, no proverbial Gar on her tail. She could take her time and not hurry . She wouldn't have to strain the child growing inside of her. She could take months to meander her way home to her father in Brenndion. By the time she returned she would be at least six months pregnant. She was already five weeks.

She only prayed that Jayden would keep her secret. She had told him a week before, and it had not come back to haunt her. But, that had been when she was present. Tarralyn had no way of knowing if the child would stay true when she was missing.

The woman had to keep telling herself that what she did, she did out of love and care. She needed to protect her child. Rahl's child. And though she desperately wished that the father would be able to know his son, she knew that it was for the best if he did not.

It took her two nights and a day, but she made it to the mountains. She only prayed that her father's magic, the Boundary, would recognize her and let her pass. On her way into D'Hara she had had a Nightwisp, Riana. But, Riana had frozen in the plains when Tarralyn herself had almost died.

His eyes were rolling back from pain. Desperately trying to lose himself once more to unconsciousness. But as he felt himself finally slipping into the sweet recesses of blackness, he was violently brought back. Evelyn had backhanded him.

"Did I tell you that you could sleep, Scum? You will sleep only when I allow it. When you earn the **privilege **of rest!"

He groaned, wishing the Rada'han were not around his throat. If only he could get out of it, he could be free of them. Or if only he could shed his magic. If the magic were not within him, it would not be within the agiels. And he could rest for just a moment.

Evelyn grabbed his jaw tightly. Her grip was almost hard enough to break the bone. She forcibly pulled his face close to hers; staring into his eyes. "I suggest you find something about me that you like. My students seem to favour my rump. Find something you like and concentrate on that. That is all that will save you.", she threw him back before stepping back from him.

He groaned lowly with pain and exhaustion; he had been next to starved on the way to the Temple of Destinies. Mistress Brionna had done everything she could to take the fire out of him. But after that first beating, it didn't take much.

Evelyn turned to Amberlee and Justine. "Cut him down."

Justine stepped forward, passed Amberlee, "But Mistress-"

"I said cut him down! He is to have rest."

Darken Rahl was out of it once more. He couldn't comprehend what was being said. It was just a mass of sounds jumbled together to his ears.

Amberlee looked at the Lord, and back to her Mistress, "Why should he have rest when the other prisoners do not?"

"Because, Amberlee," Evelyn barked a little. "The weaker he grows, the weaker grows the agiel! They are bonded! His training is merely going to take longer than I thought! NOW CUT HIM DOWN!"

Justine nodded and walked forward, supporting the man's dead weight as Amberlee unlocked the shackles. When he was down from the chains that had held him, they moved him away from the great hole in the floor.

Evelyn turned to them one more as she slipped her agiel into it's holster. "And get him some clothing. Those scars make me sick!"

Mistress Rebecca nodded and walked out of the torture chamber, to find the tattered clothing of other, now dead, victims. Justine and Amberlee carried the now unconscious man from the room and threw him unceremoniously into a jail cell. Rebecca tossed the clothing in before they locked the door on him.


	9. Chapter Eight: Breaking Point

**Disclaimer: **Devya, and Jayden are the creation of my friend Amber. Darken Rahl, and DHara, Serena and Tarralyn are the creations of Mr. Terry Goodkind. I take absolutely NO credit for these things. I **DO** however own Ansleigh, Mistresses Brionna, and Evelyn, as well as the random servants and the few guards roaming about. I also own the Forest of Weeping Moss , the Sisters of Destiny, the Kingdom of D'Auvael, and the Temple of Destinies. The other sisters of the Temple, being Rebecca, Amberlee, Justine, and others that are at the moment unnamed are technically copyright themselves; the wonderful members of .com/darkendestinies/ . This also applies with the personal guard, Commander Nightshade.

_**Chapter Eight: **_**Breaking Point**

It had not been easy. The days had ticked by torturously slow. But Mistress Evelyn of the Temple of Destinies, and leader of the Sisters of Destiny, had found the correct calibration. The perfect blend of physical agony, mental anguish, and emotional torment. The precise cocktail that would bring their defiant victim to his knees.

Literally.

Darken Rahl had found them back bravely; he had tried everything to keep himself from being broken. He had fought them back when he was physically able. When he was not suspended by his aching arms above a reeking pit of filth. But the punishments for outright defiance brought swift and brutal retaliation. Even when Mistress Evelyn herself had not seen to his torture, she put either the Mistresses Amberlee or Justine in charge. Always one or the other. While the Mistress trusted her other _sisters, _it was these two that were the highest ranking within the temple beneath their Mistress. And there were horrible days that the two of them worked together against the man.

Darken's eyes were always bloodshot with the pain he was trying to keep himself from acknowledging it. But the longer he fought them, the longer the torture would endure. And the longer it endured, the less of himself would there remain. He knew this as well as the others. He had briefly seen what Ansleigh did to have these women trained. It had turned his stomach on him. While he enjoyed their company in his throne room (and also in his bed), and took pleasure in the information only they could glean from certain enemies of the state, he did not see the need to have them so brutally tortured.

It was hard for Darken to judge who was the worst of the two subordinate Mord'Sith. Mistress Amberlee spoke in circles; promising him freedom and a release of his pain, only to then beat him worse. But Justine was a brute force like her Mistress.

Justine, with her long blonde plait, would beat him as Mistress Evelyn watched intently. She kept a hawk like eye upon her Mord'Sith and the man whose breaking she had been charged with.

Mord'Sith were to undergo three breakings of their own while they were trained to wear the leathers and to wield the agiel. After they had been taken from their families as children, they were thrown into the dungeons of their future _sisters_. There they rotted away for a time, over come by fear. And rats. Fear and rats would set them into a state of unbalance. When the doors of their prisons were finally opened, each surviving child was brought into the harsh light of the interior temple. It would burn their eyes beyond what the sun had ever done. It was then that each young girl was chosen by a Mistress, or the very rare Master (male Mord'Sith were like male Confessors, very hard to control and ultimately very evil.), who would _train _them. The first breaking was the very torture that Darken Rahl was enduring at the moment. To be broken and beaten within an inch of their lives by the woman that had chosen them. But even death when it came (and that was unsettlingly common) was no match for the Mord'Sith that sought to create another of their kind. The Breath of Life was administered, waking the dead from their sleep before it was too late. Before the Keeper kept them in his clutches. When they were finally defeated, the girls would do anything for their Mistress. Anything to stop the pain.

A Mord'Sith was the exact opposite of a Confessor; taught to inflict pain. And with that suffering to control her victims in anyway she so desired. While the Confessor's power was born of love, the Mord'Sith's was born of hate and torment.

When the first breaking was completed, the second breaking came. It was worse than the first in ways unimaginable to the child at first. Each young girl was forced into watching their Mistress (or Master) bring their mother before them. To watch as the woman who gave life to her was beaten and broken by the agiel as the child herself had been. And when finally the time came, and their mothers were begging for death, their Mistresses gave the death blow; an agiel either to the breastbone, ear, or temple.

The third breaking that the girls underwent was the one that took any last shred of love and goodness from them. Once more their parent was brought before them. But the final task was one that would prepare them for the service of their King. They were to break their father. Put him through unbelievable torture, both physical and mental. And when he was a scrounging dog, begging for his Mistress to give him orders so he could please her, she was to kill him. The act of destroying their family as the last test, and the first murder they would perform for their superiors, destroyed their hearts.

A Mord'Sith was filled with nothing but hate. It fuelled the magic given to her by the ruling Lord Rahl.

And the ruling Lord Rahl was facing the same breaking as the Mord'Sith were subjected to. But in place of his mother and his father, who were both already in the clutches of the Keeper's claws, he was to kill two completely innocent people. People that had never done a thing to hurt him.

And even as he hung from his arms enduring, but barely withstanding the power of the agiels, Darken Rahl couldn't bring himself to think the dark thoughts that would be require of him to bring to death an innocent person. He could not fathom the cruelty that it would taken. Yet he wondered that if he just caved in if it would end the torment he was being shown.

Mistress Evelyn of the Temple of Destinies, and leader of the Sisters of Destiny, had found the correct calibration. The perfect blend of physical agony, mental anguish, and emotional torment. The precise cocktail that would bring their defiant victim to his knees.

She had realized that his breaking could go two ways. If he continued to fight it, he would grow weaker as would their agiels. He would draw out his own torture for the longer. Eventually it would ruin his mind and he would give into the power of the Mord'Sith Mistress. Or, she and her _sisters _could tell him the truth. That his magic was the one fuelling the implements of their cruelty. Though he was already aware of this fact, and had been for years, having the truth of it reiterated to his breaking mind may break him faster. He would want to escape into death.

But he already had. Three times he had died under the skilled and brutal hands of the Mistresses Amberlee, Evelyn, and Justine. And three times they had breathed into his lungs the Breath of Life, ripping him away from the warm and safe confines of death and back into their icy clutches. In a prison he could never escape.

There were only two reasons he continued to fight against their attempts at breaking him.

Jayden, and Tarralyn.

Both needed him, both loved him just the way he was. How could he ever think of letting the Mord'Sith mould him into a being that he was not? How could he ever let the Mord'Sith transform him into a monster whom his child and his lover would no longer care for? The thought had struck a deep nerve inside of him. Without his father, without his mother, Jayden and Tarralyn were the only true family he had left. He had to fight for them.

But days turned to weeks, and weeks lengthened into months.

By now the Rada'han around his throat had worn his supple flesh raw. The Mord'Sith of course did not care for his comfort. He should of counted himself lucky that they gave him a jail cell with a thin bedding of straw. It was better than they could have done. The could have left him strung up by his arms for days on end. Though as the hours passed, days tended to blend together. He knew he had been left that way for nearly three days before.

By now the desecration of his hair had started to undo itself naturally. Without magic, without a spell, his dark locks were growing back. They were just below his scraggly bearded chin. The choppy tresses were a further mar upon his once proud self.

He couldn't take much more. Something had to give.

And then he broke.

Screaming out in pain from one last agiel strike, Darken Rahl's pride was destroyed. His body ruined.

His training only a third completed.

"No Mistress! Please! I'll do anything you ask of me!", the voice of the broken man came pouring out in terror. "I swear I will!"

Mistress Evelyn paused as she had moved to strike him once again. Her eyes had widened, but quickly narrowed suspiciously. The dark blue darkening further till her eyes were nearly black. She didn't trust this little outburst. He had never once called her Mistress before. Even when she ordered it of him to stop his pain. Could it be true that after so many months that the Sisters of Destiny had finally destroyed him? That they could finally start to rebuild him, only to break him the second time?

Evelyn glared at him harshly. The other Mord'Sith watched with baited breaths. Could all their have work have truly paid off?. Mistress Evelyn held her agiel threateningly nearly his face. His eyes immediately crossed as he focused on the tool. "Get up!", she practically yelled in his ear.

Darken Rahl scrambled, pushing himself up off of the cold floor. No matter how badly his joints ached. No matter how much of his body was bruised and battered. Torn and burned. He stood as swiftly as he could, pulling his shoulders back and standing at perfect military attention. Keeping his eyes forward as not to make eye contact that would warrant him another thrashing.

Evelyn kept her eyes narrow, quickly flashing them between Rahl and Mistress Justine. But they found their way back to the broken man. The man who was forcing himself not to tremble with anxiety and hurt. "Remove your shirt."

His hands immediately moved to the hem of the ragged and disintegrating old fabric. At one point it had either been a tunic that had been ripped, or it had been a grain sack that had been haphazardly repaired by one of the good sisters. He gripped the hem with his arms crossed, before lifting the article up and over his head. He stupidly dropped it upon the floor.

"Did I tell you that you could let go of it!", Evelyn brought the agiel hard across his face.

Darken's face head snapped to the side and he fought to keep a pained whimper from passing his lips. "No Mistress. I am sorry."

"Good.", she walked around him in slow circles, looking for unmarked flesh. Finally she found it, upon his lower back. "I command you to remain silent. If you make even the slightest sound, I will beat you within an inch of your life. Do you understand me, Maggot?"

He kept his face shielded of emotion, not wanting to offend any of the Mord'Sith. "Yes Mistress. I understand.", but he had to know what was coming.

Evelyn watched him, waiting for a long moment. She wanted to draw it out, force him to let his guard down if he thought by putting up walls he could save himself from the pain that was to come. When she saw him relax, even imperceptibly, she ground the tip of her agiel into the lowest curve of his back. The black and red welts erupting as his flesh turned to fire.

He grit his teeth and squared his jaw, but he made no move, or sound. The pain was unbelievable, as the agiel always was. But he had promised his Mistress that she would not hear even the faintest sound from him. His nostrils flared, and his pupils dilated, but there was no other reaction from him. Darken Rahl was broken. When the touch came, he was lost. Darken Rahl was no more.

Evelyn walked around him and stood face to face with him. Her pet's eyes continued to look at the wall just over her shoulder. Good. He knew his place. He knew not to look her in the eye. It had only been six months of torture for him to learn that lesson. Here he was no King, he was no Father Rahl. He was not even a man. He was only a wounded animal in which the cats viciously played with. "If you are truly broken, than you will do as I ask, no matter what it is."

"Of course Mistress. I will do whatever you ask of me.", he briefly turned his eyes to hers, to show her he was listening and willing to act on her behalf. But he once again moved his eyes away, before she beat him for insolence.

Mistress Evelyn smirked sadistically. She looked to Mistress Amberlee. "Bring out our other guest."

Amberlee nodded her head. Stomping her foot lightly to the floor as she bowed her cranium to her Mistress. She turned quickly; her nearly blue braid lashing out as she took off into the darkest reaches of the Temple of Destinies. When the woman in red leather returned, she pulled with her a young girl. Maybe seventeen, eighteen at most. Her hair was a mousey brown, and chopped short. What length there was left was ragged with filth and matting. Her once pale flesh was coated in heavy grime. A mixture of sweat, dirt, blood, and bruising. She was black and blue with the marks of beatings. She had blood bruises covering her arms and the exposed parts of her legs. Her eyes were a common brown. But the muddy irises lit up when she saw the man before her. His appearance into her world gave her hope once more. "Father Rahl!"

Tirion. She had been captured not long after Darken Rahl had been brought to this eastern temple. She had been a prisoner almost as long as he. But Tirion was not destined for the place of Mord'Sith. The leathers and the agiel would not be her fate.

Amberlee looked down at the woman she had to practically drag out of her cell. She growled deeply and touched the agiel to the side of the girl's throat in order to correct her. She was not to address the other prisoners in any way. Especially not with their proper titles.

Tirion cried out in pain, the tears coming to her eyes. They streaked down her filthy cheeks as she looked to her former Master. The benevolent King of D'Hara. Her eyes were pleading for him to help her. Pleading for him to rescue her from this horrible place. She just wanted to go home and see her Mama again. Just wanted to forget that this had ever befallen her.

But the eyes that Tirion gazed into for help, were cold. There was nothing behind them. Darken Rahl was blank. He was a canvas to be painted; a stone to be carved. He could not, or would not, help her. But he kept those lifeless eyes upon her as he spoke, "What are your orders, Mistress?"

Tirion's eyes widened; all hope and colour draining from her face when she heard the words. Darken Rahl was broken. The world thrown into confusion. Her world was upside down. She thought he could have withstood anything, even the tests of the Mord'Sith. But she had been wrong. And it terrified her.

Evelyn looked to him, "She is you last test. To see if you are truly broken. I want you to kill her. In whatever way you choose."

Darken gave a nod and stepped forward. Approaching the daughter of his servant rapidly.

Tirion pulled, trying to escape the clutches of Mistress Amberlee. She wanted to be away from the man as fast as she could. She wanted to run, but she knew the chances of escape were slim. She had tried it before. But the Mord'Sith holding her suddenly released her, and Tirion fell to her backside on the floor. Her eyes were wide, and she kept trying to move back.

Amberlee had decided that it would be more amusing to watch the broken man become the predator and the little servant girl the helpless prey.

But when Darken moved passed Amberlee, he drew the agiel from the holster on her hip. She immediately went to stop him, but her Mistress' hand moving into the air to stop her halted her.

"Let him wield it. I want to see how he takes the pain.", Evelyn knew that he if could take the pain already, and he was broken as he appeared to be, they could turn him into one of them all the faster. But he would need to be out of his collar first. From the recesses of her blood red corset she drew the small iron key, and threw it to the harlequin green eyed Mord'Sith.

Amberlee caught the little key, and cast her eyes down. She nodded, "Yes Mistress." She walked forward, reaching up and grabbing the heavy collar around the prisoner's throat. Her gloved fingers scraped against red-raw flesh. But he didn't even seem to notice. With her other hand she forced his jaw up and out of her way before putting the key into the lock. The collar clicked, before springing open.

His eyes widened wildly as the magic came flooding back to him. He had never realized how empty he felt without it. It spread through him like warm water. From the top of his head down through the tips of his fingers and toes. He was positively alive. And the magic was begging for a release. Darken kept his hand wrapped around the weapon, no matter how much it burned. No matter how much it hurt. The agiel, now brought to life with its true master's han, was singing loudly, begging him to use it. The pitch of the weapon was so high that it was starting to burn the ears of those around. Those watching.

Tirion had frozen in fear; her mouth agape and her eyes wide.

The evil grin spread across his face and through his dead eyes as he got closer. In one foul movement he pressed the agiel into her shoulder. Enough to make her scream out in pain as the tears came to the young woman's eyes again. But he continued. He trailed the tip of the agiel down between her breasts, just over her thin dress. The burning trail it left behind would not soon be forgotten. It was slow, painfully slow. When he drew the weapon further down. He rammed it directly into the young woman's navel; Tirion wanted to scream, but the pain was so intolerable, and he was so inhumane, that no sound could come from her lips. All she could do was pant and stare horrified into cold and dead eyes.

But Darken Rahl wasn't finished. He played this game with her for many long minutes. He wanted his Mistress to see the things he could do. To see the tortures he could carry out when she asked it of him. He wanted her to see what she had done to him. The monster she had created from a good-hearted man. He bashed the young woman as hard as he could with the implement; the force broke her jaw. She cried out in pain but he didn't care. He kicked her down until she was flat upon the floor, and he kicked her again. His foot connecting with her abdomen as the agiel connected with her throat. By now the woman was writhing; convulsing with the shock of pain that threatened to override her system.

Tirion clutched at his ratty pant leg, looking up at him pleadingly. Begging for the man that she had met while making his bed, to remerge. He was flirtatious, and he was known not to have the best discretions when it came to private matters, but he was not a murderer. He was not at all a cruel man. Strict and stern when he needed to be, but no more. And that was why the people had loved him. They would have followed him to the ends of the earth. Tirion would have followed him to the ends of the earth in hopes of having just one more chaste kiss. But this man was not Darken Rahl. He was a shadow of the man she had known. Tirion gripped at the ratty fabric desperately. "Please…Father…Rahl…please…don't…kill…me…", her words came slow. The pain of her broken jaw unimaginable to her moments before. She could only pray to the Spirits that her words would get through to him.

They didn't.

Darken Rahl kicked her once more, knocking her off of his leg and back to the floor. He took the hilt of the agiel into his hand and slammed it down into her breastbone.

Tirion's eyes widened further than he had ever seen; she convulsed as nearly black blood bubbled up from her throat and out through her lips. Before long she fell limp.

He stood up calmly, and turned back to Evelyn, who watched with a raised brow.

"Impressive. Perhaps you have been broken. For that you will have a reward. One full day's rest."

The agiel was still in his hand, and still singing. But not for long.

Mistress Amberlee walked up behind him, Rada'han in hand. She locked the collar around him once more.

The agiel fell quiet, and useless. Useless to Darken Rahl that is. And just like that he felt empty once more. Less than a shell of his former self. Never before had he realized just how much of himself he had based on his blood magic.

Evelyn turned to the blonde Mord'Sith once again. "Justine."

The blue-green eyes of the woman turned to the matriarch, and she bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement. "Yes Mistress?"

"Take my pet here to his cell. Clean him up a bit. Cut off that horrible beard of his. He has proven himself, and he deserves to look like a wraith of who he once was."

Justine looked to the filth and broken man. She couldn't help but notice the dead eyes. She didn't like it. To her it didn't sit well, but she pushed it from her mind. The Mistress knew best. "Yes Mistress. Right away.", she grabbed onto the man's puissant arm and directed him out of the torture chamber once more. Forcing him through the halls until they reached his cell. But Darken did not fight her, he walked along at her side without missing a beat.

Inside the cell Justine shackled his hands above him so he could not fight back as she did as her Mistress asked of her. Once more Mistress Amberlee had brought to her the iron shears. She would need them to remove the course beard growth that Darken had produced over the last many moons. She opened the shears, and glanced once more into his eyes; they stared back at her. Unblinking. Unfeeling. Perhaps he was mere days from getting his agiel and his leathers. Well, figuratively speaking. Justine straddled herself over his hips as he sat with his back against the stone wall. She eased her weight down until she was seated lightly upon his thighs as she took to work cutting away the facial hair. On her belt she had a straight razor she would use to properly shave and shape the remaining growth. He had been a handsome man with his moustache and goatee. The beard did not at all suit him. He looked too much the part of a prisoner. Which he would not be for much longer. Not since he had proven himself with the killing of the stupid little servant girl.

When Justine had tidied up his face and reshaped his moustache and goatee to the way he had worn it before his capture, she felt a little more at ease. Even if he was still blankly staring at her. But she was Mord'Sith. What was the difference to her. Maybe he had just chosen that he liked her eyes the best, as he had no doubt chosen Evelyn's rump and Amberlee's bust. Anything to ease the breaking. But his hair, his hair was still a desecration to the man that he was once. And would be again. The choppy cut was horrible. In contrast to his face, it made his features all the more harsh. He already had high and defined cheekbones, but the hacked locks only danced upon them and made him all the more austere. She glanced at the straight razor in her hand, and back to his hair. Her Mistress wouldn't care. She took his tresses into her gloved hand and took to work with the razor. When she was finished, the mangled locks were gentle feathers around his face. It softened his features and returned the kind look to his eyes. Even if they remained cold.

Justine eased herself up off of his lap and leaned close over him. She reached and unshackled the wrist guards holding him to the wall as her blond hair tickled against his cheek.

The moment the Mord'Sith had gone and locked the cell door, Darken Rahl buried his face into his hands. He couldn't shake the memory of Tirion's horrified eyes from his mind. He couldn't forget her begging and her pleading. He had given her the only help, the only mercy that he could. He had given her death. He had been the one because he knew that the Mord'Sith would torture her horribly. Even worse than what he had done to her. He couldn't allow that to happen. Tirion was a sweet girl; a beautiful girl in that common sort of way. He had wanted the best for her. She had wanted him. But what he had given her was the sweet release of a permanent death. Evelyn had wanted her dead, she had been his test. And so she would remain dead. She could join her father and her grandparents an all of her loved ones in the Underworld. So what he had done had been a blessed release, had it not?

But did he have to beat her so violently first?

The memory of her screams of pain and anguish were echoing through his mind. He couldn't stop them, or forget them. He was sure that they would there with him for forever.

He wasn't broken. He only prayed for a rest from the beatings. Just one day. That's all it would take. One day and he could gather himself. Maybe if he pretended long enough than he would be alright.

Maybe if he pretended that he wasn't broken he could save his soul.

But no matter what side he told himself, it was wrong. He was neither himself, nor broken. But he was very well aware that he was losing himself. That much was certain. He knew that he was not himself. He had enjoyed her screaming and her flailing and her begging too much to be left to his desire to seem broken. No. He was being eaten alive from inside. He was changing. Any longer and he would lose himself entirely to the will of Mistress Evelyn. Avalyn's sister. Jayden's aunt.

After a long moment he rested his head back against the stone wall; his eyes were closed as he put his hands down onto the thin layer of straw that was his bedding. He could feel the cold metallic bite of the Rada'han in the raw back of his neck. The temple seemed to be quieting down for the night. At least he could get some desperately needed sleep. But his fingers found a stiff piece of hay that had been mixed in with the straw. His brows knit together in confusion for a moment.

But then it hit him.

His blue eyes snapped open.

Darken quickly picked up the stem and held it up to his eyes in the pale light filtering in through the breaks in the ancient trees of the forest, and down in through his narrow window. The twig was fine and tapered. A lock pick. His left hand quickly grabbed the collar and pulled it out from his dirty throat as he leaned his head away . His right hand carefully fitting the hay stem into the tiny lock. He held his breath as he cautiously twisted the plant matter around in the lock. Finally he heard the click and the Rada'han sprung open once more. Darken immediately pulled it from his throat and threw it into the area where the straw was the thickest; so it wouldn't make a horrid clang and betray him. For a long moment he merely relished in the rush of the magic through his being. It had always been there, but it had been locked away from him. The time was also spent rubbing his raw flesh. Trying to ease the burn. His mind was blank with pleasure from the satisfaction of being able to remove his last shackle. His mind was clearly changed if he had forgotten that he was a healer himself. He could mend the crimson flesh and ease the pain from it. But eventually it occurred to him as he ran his fingers over the abrasions. The skin turned from red to pink, and slowly turned to the natural tan of his body once again. But it was his hair that upset him the most of all. It always had. That had been the reason they cut it from him. It was punishment. It was a way of taking his identity. It was a way of creating a monster. But he wouldn't let them do that. He closed his eyes, running his fingers through his hair, as the locks started to grow out once more from his scalp. He stopped it when it curled up a little upon touching his broad shoulders. It was still layered around his face from where Mistress Justine had feathered it; he liked it. It was still long enough for him to be royalty, but this shorter length would be easier to deal with. The length he had worn before, had been as long as Tirion's had been. It was enough to braid into a short braid. But now, plaits were the last thing he wanted to wear in his hair. He did not want to be a Mord'Sith whether in name or personality.

Tirion. He could save her and bring her back with the Breath of Life! But, his heart sank as he realized that it was too late. And even if it had been within the first moments after her death, her body had probably already been burned by Evelyn. His heart sank.

He sighed, running his hand through his hair for a long moment. His knees were bent up, his back to the wall. But he knew there was only one chance. He stood up slowly, as his body was still aching. And dragged his toe through the straw, drawing out a pentacle. A magic implement to help him in his escape. He just prayed that it would work as he wished. Darken stepped in the center of the pentacle, and closed his eyes, lifting his hands and murmuring ancient words to make him disappear from one place and appear in another. As his words grew more and more in volume and urgency, the straw started to lift up from the floor. It started at his feet and moved its way up, circling him.

He vanished.

And the straw fell to the floor once more. Hiding any trace of the pentacle he had drawn.


	10. Chapter Nine: Escape

**Disclaimer: **See previous chapters.

_**Chapter Nine: **_**Escape**

He had been tired. He had been weak. The magic had been unbridled, untameable, when it finally took hold over him. The spell cast had not acted as he intended it to. He had urged the magic to bring him to the Peoples Palace, but it had not. The magic instead brought him merely outside of the walls of the Temple of Destinies.

Failure. Failure to escape as far as quickly as he had wanted. He wanted to be gone before they would ever notice his absence. There was only one choice left; run.

Run. Run as fast as possible. Darken Rahl though tired, though weak and positively aching to see his own bed again, took off at an awkward sprint through the mossy ancient Balli tress. Their branches high over head were at least five hundred feet above him. It was dark, almost pitch black in the Forest. The temple was located on the very eastern edges of the Forest of Weeping Moss. If he could just run, escape west through the forest than he would be free of their clutches. Once he was a safe distance away he could try his hand at the transportation spell once again.

At least so he thought.

But the Forest of Weeping Moss stretched on for leagues, and while it was all under his rule, this forest was clearly the property of Mistress Evelyn and her Sisters of Destiny. He knew he would have to reach the end of it. But he was so tired.

All he could do was pray that he could get away from them. It wasn't for himself. Not entirely. He was terrified of losing himself of course, but he was all the more afraid of what might have happened to his child and his lover in the months he had been gone. Six long months since had been dragged from his bed. Out of her arms. And oh how horrible Tarralyn's screams had been to his ears. He had prayed to the spirits whenever he was able to think clearly, or permitted a few hours of rest, that they had kept her safe. That the fate that had befallen him, and poor Tirion, had not been the same fate that she met. He could only pray she was safe and remained so in the Peoples Palace.

At first Darken had no idea as to why the Mord'Sith had turned against him. Had no inkling as to why they would do this to their Master. Why would they want him to be as cruel as they were? Did he not treat them with respect and care? Did he not treat them as he would his Commanders and soldiers? But he had learned very quickly. In truth it had nothing to do with the Mord'Sith. It never had. They were merely the means to the end of the plan. It was Ansleigh, and Darken should have known that from the moment he was locked into the collar like a dog. He should have known then that it was the _advisor _that had meant to accomplish the end of Darken Rahl.

Ansleigh had not liked Darken Rahl since the day he had been born. Truthfully he had not liked the man since the day the Queen Snædis had confirmed that she was with child. He had despised the boy the day he was born. He was no true Rahl; his hair was dark as night while his father's was bright as the sun. when the boy grew, his flesh was permanently sun kissed, while the true Father Rahl, Panis Rahl, had porcelain flesh. Panis was tall and lithe, while Darken was slightly shorter, and broad of shoulder and strong of body. He was slender, but he was not the willowy form that had been his father. In all, Darken Rahl was the opposite creation of his father. He was the opposite of most D'Harans.

Ansleigh had "known" that the people would feel as though they were being ruled by a foreign King the moment that Darken Rahl took the throne. D'Harans were, by blood, naturally blonde of hair (though it ranged from ruddy golden tones of auburn to brilliant radiances of platinum blonde that reached nearly white in colouration) and blue of eye. They were pale. They were austere. Darken was austere, yes, but he was the exact embodiment of his name. Dark brown hair that shone with a red tint in the warm summer sunlight, and shone with a blue overtone in the cold winter light. His eyes were blue, but they were a tone strange for a D'Haran. They were a mysterious blend of slate-grey, silver, ice blue, and surrounded by a ring of midnight violet. Circling his irises, barely noticeable unless you were nose to nose with the King, were little flecks of gold. Just enough to add that strange shimmer. An unnatural look to the eyes that could either portray the kindest love; the gentlest innocence, or the hardest and harshest anger. Pure wickedness.

If Darken had showed that second side of his eyes more often, than perhaps Ansleigh would not have seen a reason to have the man sent to the temple of Destinies.

Ansleigh, since the day that Panis Rahl met his end, had seen D'Hara to be a weak and powerless animal. Should invasion come, he suspected that Darken Rahl would cower and surrender to the forces that opposed to him. Ansleigh did not see the truth: D'Hara under the compassionate and guiding hand of King Darken had flourished. While confined to their own country, and those territories that lay to the east, by a Boundary separating the Three Territories, the eastern realm had learned to make out an honest living. War was not the way of D'Hara. They were peaceful. And each person could make their living doing as they pleased. Yes, men were conscripted at the age of 18 to serve for several years in the D'Hara Peoples Peace Army, but it was reserved for that. Peace. Darken Rahl was by no means an unintelligent man; he knew that in order to keep the Peace that he had strove so hard to ensure in his father's Kingdom that lives would have to be ended, and there had to be a policing force. But it was kept at a minimum. The people had no need to fear another war, like the Great War that had been underway throughout his childhood.

The war that was the very reason for his rule. His father's death when he was only ten years had left him a boy King. A King that thought he could have the people love him for the good things he did in the world rather than force worship upon the people. And he had been right. For the fifteen years of his reign he had been absolutely correct. The people loved him, and not because they had to through ancient magiks. They loved him even when he remained hidden away from public sight for the first eleven years as he underwent his healing. The first time he had worn the Rada'han. They loved him because though he laid writhing in a small cot locked away in a hidden site, he had made sure that all was well. And when he did reappear to the public, eleven years later, he was a grown man. And celebrated for his generosity.

But that was what Ansleigh did not trust. A rule based on love was so easily shattered and ruined. The people could very well awaken from their love affair with the man, and be left to hate him. And if the people hated their King, they would rise up. If the people of D'Hara revolted, they line of Rahl would end. A three thousand year or more old tradition would be ended. And the Kingdom would be in ruins. Not even the greatest magic of the greatest wizard present would be able to save them, for it was he that they would have driven from the throne.

No, a rule based on fear and complete and utter servitude to their Master was much more likely to last. It had worked in the past. It had worked for other D'Haran Kings. Others in the Line of Rahl. But most of those Kings had died in a war of some sort.

That would not happen to Darken Rahl. Not now that he was being seen to by the Mord'Sith.

The moment that the advisor had heard of the Prophecy against the young man, he knew that they only way it could come into being is if Rahl remained the push over that he was in his mind. No. if Darken Rahl was trained in the way of the Mord'Sith and hence became a rare male Mord'Sith, than both he and D'Hara were safe. He would never be ousted from his place as the head of state. He would never meet his end at the end of the Sword of Truth. No, no snot-nosed little bastard child would rise up and kill the King. That much was certain.

The Prophecy had been averted now that Darken Rahl was among his most faithful servants.

The forest seemed to go on forever, but though he was tired, it was alright. It gave him the time to think of how he would punish Ansleigh for his betrayal. For this atrocity. And though Darken didn't truly think he himself was that important, he couldn't find another word for what had been done to him. He had been desecrated. He had been beaten. He had been sinned against. And what had he ever done to deserve it? Oh right.

He gave gold to the Sisters of Light in Thandore every year to help them with the care of all the gifted children. He had taken in a young boy that they had refused to give shelter to. He had adopted the boy when he as in the greatest need. He had cared for the fate of the child when no one else did.

He had cared.

Maybe it was time to stop caring.

Darken could still feel himself slipping away. He had thought, had hoped, that when he was out of that prison, that the leeching of his soul would halt. He had been wrong. It was never the prison. It was never even Mistress Evelyn. It was the knowledge that those closest to him (other than Jayden and Tarralyn) had been the ones to go against him. To betray him.

It angered him.

It angered him that he was feeling himself slip farther and farther as he ran through the ancient Ballis. Even though he was beyond tired, the rage at losing himself, and the want of vengeance against Ansleigh was more than enough incentive to keep him going.

But than again, so was the thought of the punishment that would surely be awaiting him if his Mistress - rather if Mistress Evelyn caught him. That was a thought, a fear, that kept entering his mind as he ran through the forest growth. Leaping over fallen logs and skirting depressions in the earth here and there. He kept looking over his broad bare shoulder, always expecting to see the matriarchal Mord'Sith hot on his tail.

By sunrise he had run farther than he thought was possible in one night. But adrenaline and fury had driven him. On foot at walking pace the Forest of Weeping Moss took one whole day and one night to pass through. While Darken was not yet out of the forest, he was making good time. As long as he put the Temple of Destinies and the Mord'Sith as far behind him as he could, than he would be safe. All he had to do was get out of their woods and find a small village. It didn't have to be much. He just had to find shelter where he could collapse for many long days, have a bath, and a decent hot meal. Then he would return home and try to ease back into his old life. Try and ease his worn ragged spirit. Try and let go of the fury that was pushing him through the forest.

At dawn he was reaching the western boarder of the forest. Though it would be several hours yet, he knew he was close. The trees were fewer and further between. They were no longer Ballis, but common algars, willows, wayward pines, etc. they were spaced widely, allowing the rising sun to streak down golden light as he ran over dusty earth. No longer was the forest around him so thick he could barely see, and so moss covered that everything was green.

Mistress Rebecca was the one to first notice the missing prisoner. She had walked in to leave the prisoner's meagre breakfast for him while he slept. It was early, still only around sunrise, but as usual the temple was waking back up. Well, at least the Mord'Sith. It was a commonly known fact that most prisoners didn't sleep more than a few minutes. Whether racked with fear and stress induced insomnia or by the hand of their Mistresses denied any form of rest until they broke to her will.

Rebecca entered into the cell with the plate of unbuttered, stale bread and a small tankard full of water in hand. She took on step in and looked around in minor surprise (she hid her shock behind a well schooled façade). Then she saw the Rada'han lying upon the straw covered floor and a deep growl came from her throat. The Mistress needed to be informed that her pet had broken his shackles and escaped.

"WHAT?", Evelyn's loud and angry voice echoed throughout the stone temple; ringing off of every wall. The sound briefly turned all the other prisoners and Mord'Sith alike completely silent. One could practically hear the moss growing on the outer walls.

"Yes Mistress. Darken Rahl has escaped.", Rebecca held up the unlocked collar to the light. To her Mistress' eyes.

Evelyn's dark eyes narrowed looking at the collar. She sat at a table in the main living quarters of the Mord'Sith; dressed in a simple white linen dress which she had been sleeping in. her long tightly waved nearly black hair laid over her shoulders and down her back. Her feet were on the table; her ankles crossed. In her hand she had had a plate of eggs. In her anger she slammed it down and stood up. She looked down her nose at the Mord'Sith before her. "Get your sisters. Amberlee, Justine, and Sandra. Make ready to ride. When I emerge I want you to be ready to leave. If you are not you will be tortured the same as the prisoner. Do you understand me?"

Rebecca nodded her head to the other woman. "Yes Mistress. I will see to it right away." She put her hand upon the hilt of the agiel upon her hip, nodded her head once more, and turned. Leaving to get the other Mistresses that Evelyn had named.

Evelyn was fuming when she emerged from the Temple of Destinies. The other three Mord'Sith were waiting, seated high upon their mounts. Evelyn's bay stallion was waiting at the head of the small group. Her hair was pulled back in a tight braid as always, and her leathers were pristine. Even if she had dressed in a hurry. She pulled herself up into the saddle and immediately jolted the horses off down the narrow path which Darken Rahl had taken the night before.

To the trained eye of the Mord'Sith, the shine upon his trail through the moss was a silvery beacon that would lead them to the fleeing King.

Darken Rahl heard the thundering hooves coming up behind him, and he turned his head. He lost everything in his mind; terrified that he was caught. He looked forward again and sped his pace a little, despite the burning protesting cramps in his thighs. He was aching all over. He was exhausted. But he knew if he could just escape them that he would be free.

But then he remembered. Any magic used upon a Mord'Sith would be captured by her and turned back upon the original wielder and bring a pain worse by tenfold. There was no sense in using magic if they did surround him. Even trying to disappear could spell disaster. He wasn't even entirely sure that without the pentacle beneath his feet that it would work. And there was no sense in stopping now to draw it when the horses were thundering all the closer.

The only thing he could do is keep running. Maybe hide. But he knew neither would work. He could only pray to the spirits to keep him safe and to the Creator to decide his fate with her divine wisdom. But he still prayed that the Mord'Sith did not capture him.

He could hear them getting closer. He could feel his body protesting his constant forward motion. He was breathless and every muscle in his body was burning. Even a few that he had not been aware of before hand. His lungs were burning violently, and he feared that if he coughed, it would bring blood. Even the Mord'Sith had not cause that, but than again he had never been pushed this far physically after one of their _lessons_.

There was no choice. He glanced about desperately as he panted. His brows knit in slight worry and concern. His eyes full of a confusion as a hundred thousand thoughts crisscrossed through his tired mind. His breast rose and fell in the force of his breathing. The only thing he could see was one especially wide algar. He only hoped that the trunk was wide enough to hide him. At least until they rode passed. If he could hide long enough he could dash into the forest further and try and force his transportation magic to work.

As long as it didn't return him to the temple. He feared he might break down into tears if that came to be.

But the Mord'Sith were not as easily fooled. They slowed their horses as they came down the path. Darken couldn't help the curiosity, briefly glancing out from behind the stalk of the massive tree. But it was long enough. For that mistake he would pay dearly.

Evelyn smirked catching a quick sight of the man they were hunting. She held up her gloved hand to stop the others behind her. She shook her head almost in amusement. If Darken Rahl really wanted to be free, he would have kept running no matter the pain. He would have run till he collapsed. And then he would have tried to drag himself away. But Evelyn knew better. She knew that he was starting to crack. Though she had to admit that his little performance the day before had had her fooled. She now saw he was like the others. Terrified of what was happening to them.

But that wouldn't last long.

She would beat it out of him for his little escape attempt. She lifted her foot from the stirrup, and swung herself down from the horse. Landing with a slight bend of her knees. She straightened herself quickly. Amberlee, and Justine behind her followed, while Sandra stayed upon her mount. She knew they needed only three, and thought it best to watch from atop her beast. In case he tried _anything_. She could quickly deflect any magic he thought to conjure against her Mistress. Evelyn marched forth, a slight swagger in her hips as she gave the exhausted man an evil smirk.

Darken closed his eyes a moment, still breathing heavily. He thought briefly to utter the spell to make himself invisible, but knew they would find him again. He could try talking his way out of it, but it wouldn't work. He knew that much. When he opened his unsettled eyes once more, Mistresses Amberlee and Justine were close by as their Mistress watched on like a hawk. He moved to fight them back, but he was so tired. So sore that he knew he wouldn't be a match for them.

And so they grabbed him; pulling him unkindly back to their Mistress.

Evelyn looked down her nose at him. Looking into his eyes as she spoke to her subordinates. "Bind his hands and put his collar back in place. Put the chain onto the collar, and attach it to my horse."

Darken's eyes widened in shock, his jaw dropping slightly.

Evelyn smirked superiorly as she saw his look, "What, did you think I would let you ride with one of us after your bad behaviour? Ooh, I'm sorry.", her voice was sickeningly sweet with mock upset. Until she grinned evilly. "No _Father Rahl_, you will be dragged back to the temple, where you will be broken. And you **will **be broken this time my darling. Even if it kills you. Again. What's one more death?"

He steeled his features, jutting his jaw forward indignantly and pressing his lips together tightly as his nostrils flared slightly. His eyes narrowed, glaring back at her silently as Justine forced the hemp rope in tight loops around his wrists behind his back. He would have spit at her, if Amberlee had not stepped into his path between himself and the Matriarch once more. He felt the cold sting of the collar locked once more onto his neck. And the magic fell quiet once again. His body disturbingly empty. His soul enraged and seething, but silent. He just stared back at the smirking Mistress with cold dead eyes.

But that would stop as soon as she kicked her horse off into a briefly period of galloping.

Darken yelped loudly in pain and shock as the already tight chain attached to his collar pulled him off of his feet. With his hands tied behind his back he could not save himself as he fell to the hard forest floor. His face contorted with pain as he was dragged over the stones and through the bush. His face and bare torso ripped by the rocks and the thorns. But he fought as much of the noise as he could. He wouldn't give her that satisfaction.

But the Mord'Sith would not stop until she heard him beg her. And so his punishment went on for many minutes before he could take it not longer.

Darken's pained voice finally screamed out as a particularly sharp rock tore the flesh of his back open, and his arms and hands that were bound behind him. The chain around his neck forced him to roll back and forth between his stomach and his back as he was dragged. The sheer energy of the galloping horse was causing this as it traveled through the beast, into the saddle, and through the chain and to his collar. He was terrified that his neck would break. Because he had to stay alive for Tarralyn and Jayden. He had to survive.

He would not give the Mord'Sith the final pleasure of seeing him remain dead. He would not give Ansleigh the satisfaction of being able to remain upon **his** throne.

Mistress Evelyn heard his screams, but paid him no attention. The same as always.

He was growing more and more desperate; the dirt and grit was like sandpaper over his fresh wounds. Finally he couldn't stop himself. "Please Mistress! I am sorry!"

Good boy.

Evelyn started to slow her horse and turned around in her saddle looking back at him as he laid panting and disoriented in the dirt on his back. The pain of the ripped flesh was unbelievable, but now the beast had stopped (and he wasn't sure if he meant the horse or the Mord'Sith as he later thought this over to himself) the cool dirt seemed almost soothing. Evelyn narrowed her dark eyes at him. "Get up scum!"

Darken's eyes fluttered as he was nearly lost in his pain. He groaned a little and rolled onto his right side. He pushed himself up with his shoulder onto his knees. Even though it required pressing his cut and bruised face into the filth. When he was on his knees, Evelyn grabbed the chain and jerked it hard. The force of the shortening chain ripped him up and forced him to stumble until he was standing.

"Good. Now if you stay a good boy I will keep the horse at a decent pace. You may walk behind him. But you will still be bound by the chain to your Rada'han. If you upset me, you will be dragged all the way back to the temple. No matter how much you scream I will not listen. Nor will the others."

Darken could only nod as he was panting. Finally his voice came, breathily, "Yes Mistress."

"Good. Because that is the only kindness you will be receiving from me!" She backhanded him hard before she turned around in her saddle.

His head snapped to the side once more, and he groaned. But, he could deal with it. As long as he wasn't dragged again. The rocks had wreaked havoc upon his burn scars, they were bleeding, but quickly stopping. The damaged had not been _too_ horrendous.

The other three women trotted up behind their Mistress with her wounded and captured animal quickly. They had seen it all, and they had enjoyed his screams. But than again, they always enjoyed the screams of pain and "Mistress!" coming from their victim's mouths. Him being the King of D'Hara only made it all the better.

Darken Rahl was forced to walk behind the horse all day. When he started to lag from exhaustion, the chain was tugged and forced him to keep pace. If he fell too far behind, the advancing horse would cause him to be pulled down once more. He was dragged until he could force himself to stand behind the walking horse again.

He was more than happy to see the foreboding walls of the Temple of Destinies once again that twilight. Even if it did mark the beginning of an end.


	11. Chapter Ten: Retaliation

**Disclaimer: **See previous chapters.

_**Chapter Ten: **_**Retaliation**

The Sisters of Destiny wasted no time. As soon as Commander Nightshade had put their horses away, they had gone to their task. Evelyn wrapped the heavy chain around her forearm and hand. She jerked the exhausted man once more into the temple. He was truthfully hoping for her to hang him up by his arms; at least it would stop the burning of the ache in his thighs.

Mistress Evelyn pulled her recaptured prize behind her. Darken Rahl was a dog beaten and starved. But she didn't care how he kept missing steps. She pull the chain harder, tighter, forcing him to catch himself and keep following her. Everything hurt. The very air around him blazed against his throbbing and hurting flesh.

The simple and quick look around the algar had brought him back to Hell. The curiosity had killed his soul but left the pain.

Mistress Evelyn turned to him, tilting her head as she looked down her nose at him. Darken Rahl was a sad excuse of a man at the moment. He was bloody, he was bruised, he was filthy. He was slumping forward to ease his aching back and looking up at her with eyes fit for a beat dog. Tired and panting from the leagues that he had covered in the last twenty four hours. He was upon his knees on the stone floor, trying to ease the cramping he was feeling. Her eyes were harsh as she stared down at him. She would not be moved by him. "Justine."

Mistress Justine stood at attention once again. Her sea-green eyes turned to the other Mord'Sith. "Yes Mistress?"

"String him up by his arms again. His breaking starts tonight and will continue until he is broken. Until he is a dog begging at my feet."

The blonde Mord'Sith's eyes quickly shot to the man who was still silently defiant. Even in his current helpless state. Her vision trailed over him; he had been a handsome man, but the way he kept resisting them was wearing on his body. She looked once more towards Evelyn. She knew better than to say anything; she did not wish to be the one broken this evening. "Of course Mistress.", she stalked towards the man and grabbed his shoulder, forcing him back to his feet.

He cried out softly; her boney gloved fingers were pressed hard into a gash on his shoulder and collarbone. Justine forced him back to his feet, which made him waver back and forth. He was far beyond any state of exhaustion that he thought physically capable before death set in. But, than again he was technically the walking dead already. He had been given the Breath of Life three times while in the presence of these women. And granted for six months of breaking and torture that was an impressive feat, it was still far too many times. It should never have happened once. The only reason he should have ever needed to be given the Breath was if he had frozen in the winter while trying to give grain. But even then he had been able to ward of the cold with magic. But with the Rada'han around his throat and the Mistresses more than happy to inflict unimaginable pain upon his person, he was useless. He was nothing. He was ineffectual.

Darken found himself once again suspended by his arms above a reeking pit. But he'd learned to ignore the horrid pong as he was being beaten. He had to or he would have vomited from the stench. The burning in his broad shoulders, though with the pulling of his body weight against them felt like his arms were going to ripped from their sockets, was a delicious and welcome feeling compared the now diminishing aching in his legs. Darken was used to being in pain now. He couldn't remember what it was like to not feel it. He couldn't imagine his world without pain of some sort. But while he was used to it, he preferred it when the hurt was changing locations. That way one didn't draw all of his mind and energy. That way his Mistress could not be angry with him for not paying attention to her.

But the torment he was about to go through would not, could not, compare to what had been done to him the first time they tried to break him. This was a whole new playing field, a whole new level of Hell. This, this had to be what it was like to be forever tormented by the Keeper himself.

There were no breaks during the torture; Mistress Evelyn ignored her own exhaustion. And when it came to be too much, either Justine or Amberlee took over while she reenergized herself.

Evelyn was a cruel and hard Mistress. With her there was never a chance at escape. There was only one choice. To bend and break at her will. And even then you would not be released.

The first _breaking_ had been kind. It had been as much pain as they could induce, without covering all of his body with their agiels.

Darken Rahl was no longer given that saving grace. That little sliver of dignity that he may have still retained was going to be beaten out of him. He would be broken no matter how hard he fought. They would make him into their plaything, and he would do anything to please his Mistress and her sisters. And then they could start the task of rebuilding him as they wanted. They could make him to be whatever they desired.

Ansleigh wouldn't be able to stop them. He was not here, and he knew better than to show his face lest he be punished by the Mord'Sith for having the King brought to them. While they enjoyed the training of the young man, they still were aware that he, when he was rebuilt, was their Master. Ansleigh was only the regent at the moment; ruling through the need for the Throne to be filled. This was not like the years that Darken Rahl had been healing; he was still capable of making decisions at that point in his life. Now? Now he barely knew his name any more.

But the breaking was so much more horrible this time. Any one else would have lost themselves in the first moments. But Darken Rahl held onto himself as tightly as he could while the women pressed their agiels against him. As they pressed the whining weapons into the naked flesh of his burned body.

Never had he felt such pain. The once occurring brief touch of the agiel to the scars had been enough to nearly render him unconscious, but since that day he had learned to disregard pain. But this was another new level. Three very angry agiels pressed into the bumpy flesh, each one with all the strength of the woman behind it. And with all the force of his own pent up magic coursing through them.

The pain rose welts instantly; he could feel the healed scars splitting like the sun baked earth, and opening into fissures of gore. The blood poured like water.

And when the weapons were removed, and the angry wounds throbbing with searing pain, the world swam. His vision came and went as it faded back and forth from blood red to black. His eyes were filling with blood tears from the pain that spread through his being.

This torture went on for days.

Minute after minute, hour after hour, and day after day for seven days the Mord'Sith Mistress and her sisters saw to his pain. He and screamed himself hoarse by the second day. The third day he could only whimper and cry. The fourth day he had tried to scream again, but all that came from his throat was a pained gurgle.

On the seventh day, with her hair everywhere and flooded with exhaustion, Mistress Evelyn looked upon him cruelly as he remained hanging from his arms. He was a pathetic excuse of a man. He was a worm. The scars were brilliant red, as if they were fresh. The floor and the grate beneath him was covered in the blood that had poured from the injuries. All down his leg was the trail of the crimson life blood that had rained heavily from the torn burn marks.

Darken Rahl hung from his arms, swinging back and forth slightly from the force in which his Mistress had inflicted his torture. His head was hanging forward. His long dark hair, which this time had been kept as is (the Mord'Sith were determined to get right to work on his physical pain. The emotional pain would come with it.), hung into his face as a dark curtain. He had made no sound in two days.

Evelyn was sure he was still alive; she could still see his filthy breast rising and falling with his breathing. Even if his breath was shallow. As long as he was breathing. She growled deeply; an alpha wolf ready to tear into her meal. She thrust the agiel up under his chin. Pushing his jaw up and so she could look into his eyes.

As the black marks of the dark magic spread from the tip of the agiel through the soft flesh of his stubbly chin, his pupils dilated. But there was nothing in the eyes but exhausted sorrow. The only rest he had been given was the moments of unconsciousness when the pain had been too much. When it had been to great to withstand.

Evelyn half laughed; the snort coming from her nose as she looked upon him with a tight smirk.

Broken.

She bashed his face once more. Darken's head was thrown to the left. His dark hair flying wildly for a mere moment. The sudden force had rattled his bonds once more, and sent him swaying, held only by his arms. He thought they might have been out of socket by now. But with all the pain he was constantly in; if they were it wasn't bothering him. Not in the least.

"Throw him into the cell.", Evelyn turned away from the hanging man as she put the agiel into its place upon her thigh once more. Her braid was long frayed from the force of her actions; the beatings that she had inflicted upon the youthful King. She started to pluck the red leather gloves from her fingers one by one, until she could remove them easily. The next time she dressed in leather, it would be white. To signify the breaking of her victim. To signifying the cessation of his pain.

A least by her hand.

Justine nodded her blonde head to her Mistress, and with Mistress Amberlee, walked forward. They braced themselves on their heeled boots over the grate. She reached up and unlocked the shackles, releasing the nearly dead man. Rahl fell from his bonds like a sack of potatoes. Unable to even try to save himself. If it had not been for the two Mord'Sith standing beneath him, he would have fallen upon the grate. And that would have meant either breaking a few ribs, or breaking through and falling into the filth below in the deep darkness.

But even as the two dragged him, a third followed them. She was moderately tall, and lean. Mistress Melanie. Her braid was long and of a dark auburn tone, nearing brown. She kept her greyish-green eyes upon her two sister like a hawk; sent by their Mistress to keep watch over how the other two put the man into his cell. To make sure they were not coddling him.

They clearly were not. Amber held up his legs as Justine carried him by the shoulders. They moved together into the cell, and on the silent count of three they swung his body and threw him into the straw.

With a roll and a groan Darken came to a halt with his battered body against the wall. The stone was cold and soothing upon his back. But he was so weak that he could do no more than stare up at them.

Melanie watched with a raptor-like glare as Amberlee and Justine bowed their heads to her, walking out of the cell passed her. She continued to glare down at the broken and assaulted man for a long moment. He was weakly returning her gaze. If he had been in the right state of mind, Melanie would have beat him for that indiscretion; however he was clearly swimming through thoughts of pain and trying to stay awake until she was gone. No one had said he could sleep. Finally she turned on her heel; her long braid quickly lashing out like a whip before settling once more against her back. She pulled the door shut behind her. And the lock clicked into place with a reverberating metallic sound.

Outside the cell stood Commander Nightshade. He was under orders from his Mistress to watch the cell and the man inside like a hawk. There would be no more escape attempts. There would be no more reprisal of strength and hope in the man. He was to be left to rot until a time of Evelyn's choosing.

But to Darken Rahl that was a blessing. It meant rest. It meant that wounds could naturally heal and heal the stronger for the beating. Even if it left him on the woozy side.

But the moment that the lock had clicked into place he pulled himself up out of the straw and rolled his eyes a little. Was there really a need to throw him? He was already under their control. Would breaking his back really help them?.

As he stood looking himself over, he let out a sad exhale. Yes he was in pain, and yes it was quite horrible, but he had learned to put that away. What was important right now was seeing the extent of his wounds. He could be in pain while he slept. What was one more moaning prisoner in the walls? He rapidly came to the conclusion that there was not one inch of his body that had not faced the touch of the agiel. Not even the souls of his feet. And for it much of him was bruised and tender to the touch. He could only brush away the straw from the stone floor. The cold firm floor would help his aching back and shoulders.

He lowered himself carefully down upon the cell bottom. Even his knees audibly cracked. That had never happened before, but this wasn't before. He was no longer in as good of body condition as he had been upon the throne of D'Hara. When his hands found the floor he sighed in pleasure; the cold stone eased the burning numbness from his palms. He was afraid all the blood had been kept out of them, but his body was slowly recovering. Slowly coming back into himself.

The night was short-lived for the young man. He had slipped nearly instantly into a death-like sleep. So deep that the temple could have fallen and he would not have noticed it. Would not have stirred. He was into the blackness of a sleep that came without a dream almost as soon as his back touched the floor. That night was in fact several days. He slept straight through three nights and two days; waking on the morn of the third day. Only to see that his ratty clothing had been throne back into the cell with him. There was another plate of stale bread and a tankard of water. But he'd never been so happy to see such things. The hunger in his belly was beyond imagining; the mere sight of the bread had set him to salivating. He grabbed onto the crusts with filthy hands and tore into it with his teeth; a dog into a steak.

The scraps did not feel like enough to him, but Darken knew it was the only food he would be seeing that day. His body still ached, now more than ever if he honestly concentrated upon it. But it was all he could do to pull on the ratty shirt and breeches once more. If only to make himself feel less vulnerable. To give his ancient scars a shield against the Mord'Sith. Yet he sank back against the stone wall of the cell. He brought his knees up to his chest, and wrapped his arms around them. He turned his head and carefully rested his cheek against his knees. Drifting into thoughts.

_Tarralyn must be beside herself., _he thought to himself as he stared off into oblivion. _And poor Jayden. I was all he had, and now he's been left with the monster that ordered this done to me._, he could feel his fury starting to bubble. _Well Jayden, I promise you that this will never befall you._ He continued on into his train of thoughts, which was in fact a jumble. Since he had been here he found it hard to align all his thoughts into one coherent string. There were too many emotions that constantly raged through him. Ranging from contempt to peace. From homicidal psychosis, to numbness. The numbness was no doubt for the best.

The days ticked by and still Darken Rahl was left alone by himself in the cell. Given his bread and water, but ignored for all else. He could have been barely breathing and the Mord'Sith and their guard wouldn't have cared less. On the fifth day of this, he had made up his mind. _If you want to play that game, we can play. _

It was the eighth day before Evelyn decided to pay attention to her pet. But she was not going to be one having her fun. She wanted the others in the Temple, all of them, to have their chance at torturing the man that should have been their master. But this time it wouldn't be quite so contained. He was not to be bound by anything but his Rada'han. He was to remain still and let the Sisters of Destinies to him as they wished. If he was truly broken than he would do this without question. If not, this would break him completely. If he had so much as a crack in his outer shell, this sudden and uncalled for punishment would send him over the edge.

Mistress Melanie lead the pack through the stone hallways. Their heels were clicking upon the floor and ringing off of the high stone walls.

Darken, who sat with his back still against the cool stone, looked up when he heard them approaching. It had snapped him out of childhood memories. Memories of his mother, his father (when they were at least comfortable with each other), and himself. Memories of Snædis' burning had flooded his mind before he heard the Mord'Sith's approaching footsteps. He looked up towards the door when it opened up. The old iron hinges creaked and shuddered.

Melanie strode into the cell and towards her Mistress' prisoner as Commander Nightshade held the door aloft. Behind her followed Justine and Amberlee.

Darken, as always, let the Mord'Sith lift him to his feet by a gloved hand under his arm. Gripping his arm painfully. He didn't seem to notice.

Melanie kept her face a stoned wall while Amberlee and Justine smirked slightly between themselves. They and their Mistress had been the ones to bring this change of the man about. They had been the one to take all the fire from him. Mistress Melanie was simply the one now charged with keeping a policing eye upon him. She wrapped the loops of rough hemp rope around his wrists. Binding his arms behind his back as Abrihet, the dark skinned Mord'Sith, fastened the chain to his collar. Just to lead him. Abrihet bowed her head to Melanie and handed the chain to her. Justine and Amberlee turned their backs and walked out. Turning to the few other Mord'Sith that had joined the back to get them. The rest of them were waiting in the torture chamber. Abrihet walked ahead of Melanie, who pulled behind the dog on the leash.

Darken Rahl followed behind them; the good pet, even though he was bound. When they entered into the torture chamber once more, Evelyn stood off to the side.

She was stunning. Her dark hair was pulled back just as tightly as ever, but it was such a contrast to the leathers she wore. Her standard blood red and brass had been exchanged for pure white leathers. Even a white agiel. The uniform was accented with pure silver buckles and clasps. She seemed to be a Queen of the Mord'Sith.

Melanie nodded her head to the Mistress, and Evelyn lifted a white gloved hand giving the other woman permission. She cut the lead from the magic blocking collar around his throat. Abrihet behind him cut the bonds from his hands.

"You will stand perfectly still as the Mord'Sith give you one last test.", Evelyn's voice was still steel-edged.

Darken made no move to answer or nod. But it was understood that he acknowledged her words. He had not stirred, just as she asked of him. He seemed almost a statue in in the circle of the Sisters of the Agiel that were closing in.

Each woman brandished her agiel with a deadly grin. A grin that meant torturous pain to come. Amberlee and Justine were all the more eager to prove to their Mistress once more that they could be trusted. That Mistress Melanie was not needed to keep a watchful eye over them. It had not been their fault that he had not be broken the first time, or that he had escaped. They had helped to capture him once again, and fully break him, had they not?

Rahl stood as a statue. Unmoving. Even his eyes were blank. He was just to follow orders.

Evelyn smirked a little. She could have ordered him to do _anything _and he would have listened. He would have obey her like the little lap dog he had become.

Or so she thought.

Abrihet and Melanie advanced at once; both slamming their agiels into his flesh. The dark skinned Mord'Sith pressed hers into the on the side of his neck, just above his collar, while the dark auburn haired woman slammed hers into his left side.

But Darken Rahl's hand moved. It flew up before any of them could react. He wrapped his right hand around the singing shaft of the weapon, gripping it tight as his jaw squared. The pain was nothing as it flooded threw him. His left hand found the agiel of Mistress Melanie, and he clutched it just as tightly. He pulled them away from his body.

Evelyn was surprised, but her momentary lapse of concentration did not get to last very long.

Abrihet had no time to register what the man had done, as Darken Rahl threw down the agiel with such force that her arm went with it. While her mind was on the movement his right hand lashed around. He backhanded the dark woman, sending Abrihet back. Stumbling as she felt her face. Her cheekbone felt broken where he had struck her.

Melanie's eye were wide as she watched her _sister _stumble backwards into the ranks of other Mord'Sith. But Darken turned on her as well. His hand shot out and he gripped her by her throat. His thumb pressing painfully into her collarbone, even through the leather collar guard she wore. Her agiel was dropped to the floor, forgotten as he pushed her back towards Evelyn. When he threw her, she crashed to the floor and fell unconscious. She had hit her head rather hard upon the stone tiles.

The other ranks of women advanced to attack at once, but Darken had had enough of their petty little games. His eyes flashed angrily.

Evelyn had also had enough. She pulled her white agiel from her hip. Holding it high as she walked toward him. He was _her _pet. She would put him into his place. And then she would break him again.

But Evelyn forgot the agiel upon the floor. And though he was locked into the Rada'han and therefore the weapon's magic would not work in his hands, he caught it with his foot and kicked it up. He caught it as she approached. Still the core of the weapon was made from steel and wrapped in leather and enchanted by the magic of the Rahl bloodline. The magic wouldn't be necessary for his action. Only the steel.

Darken turned to her as the Mistress moved to strike him with her whining weapon; he lashed back. His arm arching up over the opposite shoulder before he brought it racing back. The rod connected with her jaw with a sickening crack.

Evelyn fell to the floor gasping in pain and shock as the blood trickled from her lips. The scarlet liquid dripped down her chin and onto her beautiful white leather. She was panting as Darken stood over her, glaring at her with an unearthly look in his eyes.

"Who is your Master?", he demanded. His voice hard with fury. The fury that raced through his blood and had urged him through the forest weeks before. The fury that had been slowly taking him over and to which he had felt the loss of himself. His nostrils flared slightly as he panted in anger.

Evelyn made no move to answer. Him. She glared back up at him defiantly. But Darken Rahl had had enough of her. When she did not answer, he kicked her as hard as he could. His foot connected with her leather corset and forced her over onto her back.. When she tried to get up once more, he bashed her with the weapon in had. Evelyn groaned, trying to move away long enough to get up and grab her fallen agiel. If she could just connect it to him in the right place she could kill him and be done with it. This prisoner had taking far to look to train. And he was clearly not trained yet. But as she moved she was given another swift kick that knocked her heavily upon her back once again.

"I asked you a question and you will answer me! Who is your Master?"

Evelyn pursed her lips together tightly; keeping her eyes down and away from the raging blue irises above her. She ran her tongue along the inside of her mouth as she felt for the source of the blood. Her jaw was still aching. But if it was broken she was numb to it. She was not like Tirion had been.

"Answer me!"

"You are.", her voice was forced out. She was being dominated, and she hated it.

"What did you say? I didn't hear you!"

Oh the humiliation. She squared her jaw and spoke a little louder, "You are, Lord Rahl."

The Sisters of Destiny watched on in shock. What had just happened? No one had ever dared to lay a hand upon Mistress Evelyn since the day her own training had been complete. Since the day she had been given her leathers and her agiel she had been feared. She had thought herself to be indestructible. Her _sisters _had believed it. Yet here she was. Knocked to the ground and dominated by the pet she had sought to break for seven months. For seven months she had been his superior, and now she lay at his feet. Nearly whimpering.

Darken's voice was different than it had been when he arrived. When he had been brought here by the Mistress Brionna, he had been stern, but soft spoken. The gentle lilt to his voice had given him the kind air. But it was diminished. Destroyed along with his spirit and mind. His tone was harsh; a flinty sharp edge. He was a knife. "Good girl. Now, get me the key to the collar.", when Evelyn didn't move, he snapped. "NOW!", his bark rang out through the temple. The heightened pitch echoing off every cut stone and bouncing around.

Evelyn nodded her head slowly, "Of course my Lord. As you wish." She stood slowly to her feet, as not to make him strike her down again. But he didn't move. He merely towered over her, even though their height was close in range. He owned her. Once upon her feet she pulled the long leather thong with the iron key attached from inside her corset. She barely held it up to the light before he took it from her hand.

Darken raised the key to the lock of his collar and slipped it into the tiny space. He turned it and the metal band sprung open. The rush of his han spread quickly, like wildfire through the dry summer fields and forests. Like plague through the poor villages of the Kingdom. The agiel, still gripped in his hand tightly, sang to life as the pain pulsed along with his blood.

But it was a welcomed pain. A sign that he had returned to power in D'Hara.

Evelyn stood with her dark head bowed, wary to look up on him or speak. But he turned to Amberlee, whose harlequin green eyes widened just a little.

"You."

She raised her jaw just a little, showing her Master the respect and acknowledgement of his words.

"Draw me a bath."

She cast her eyes down, quickly trailing them over his grimy form. He certainly needed the wash. He looked nothing like the King he was. She gave him a curt nod of her head, "Of course my Lord.", she turned and left the torture chamber as the King turned to Justine.

"You."

Justine looked into his eyes briefly for her sign that she was listening to him. "Yes Lord Rahl?"

"Fetch me some decent clothes, fitting my status."

She nodded. Brionna had brought his red and gold robes with her when she had brought him here. They had been reserved for the day that the Mord'Sith had rebuilt him in the way they had wished. But he had rebuilt himself. "Of course.", with a quick nod she too left.

Darken turned once more to the former Matriarch. She had put him through so much pain, so much anguish, that death was too good for her. He glanced at the collar in his hand, and his lips pulled into an evil smirk. He moved forward and locked it about her throat.

Evelyn closed her eyes tightly. She knew better than to move when he approached, and she had known what was coming. But it still angered her. This had been _her _temple. These were _her _lands. They were _her _Mord'Sith. But she had always been _his _pet.

"You are mine now, and even death will not end your suffering."

He groaned out in pleasure as he sank into the hot water of the bathing pool. Amberlee stood void of her leathers, with her braid wrapped around itself many times upon her head to keep it from getting wet. She looked him over, her eyes trailing over the many dark bruises that were even now fading and healing. Now that his magic had been returned to him for his use.

Across from them stood Evelyn. A heavy chain was locked to the Rada'han around her throat. The chain had been wrapped around the pillar closest, and locked there. There was only enough slack for her to stand. Not even enough to shift her weight. She would know what she had put him through. And hers would be tenfold worse than what she had ever done to him.

Amberlee lifted the soft wash cloth, and with her freehand rubbed soap into his broad shoulder blades. She waited a moment before scrubbing at his flesh with the cloth given to her. His hair was already cleaned and streamed down upon the very top of his back as the warm rivulets of water ran down his flesh.

Justine stood waiting at the side of the bath with a high thread count linen towel. She wanted him to enjoy every single task that was being done for him. Hoping it might make him a little kinder.

But the damage had been done. The monster created.

The King that Ansleigh had wanted created.

The evil that the Seeker was prophesized to rise against.


	12. Chapter Eleven: Retribution

**Author's Note: **sorry about the delay in the chapter update. Was very busy in my real life with family, as well as having issues working up the ambition to finish this chapter.

**Disclaimer: **See previous Chapters

_**Chapter Eleven: **_**Retribution**

Long dark tresses were washed silky once more. Grimy and bruised flesh had been bathed and returned once more to the sun kissed glow. He was a King, and nothing less. Beautifully detailed robes made of crimson velvet and gold silk only emphasized this point.

But it wasn't the change in the robes or appearance of Darken Rahl that had sparked the fear into the eyes of the Mord'Sith of the Temple of Destinies. No, it was the change in his eyes. Blue eyes that once held generosity, were now void of nearly all emotion. They had meant to break him, but they had also meant to rebuild him. It had not been necessary. Darken Rahl had created himself anew from the shreds of his soul that they had left behind.

He was no longer afraid of losing himself; he was lost and he knew there was no turning back. There was no need to feel ashamed; the people of D'Hara would become accustom to him in his new embodiment. And if they didn't, they would meet the King's wrath.

Darken Rahl would continue to be loved. He demanded it.

Evelyn stood behind her Master, locked upon the shackled she had had him wearing for so many months. Her neck was braced in cold iron. The Rada'han. The magic blocking collar that she had made the young King of D'Hara wear. Attached to the collar was a heavy gauge rusting iron chain. That chain lead from the collar and to her Master; Darken Rahl kept the length wrapped about his strong forearm, while he held it tight. The span of the chain between Evelyn and her Master was a tense four feet. This made her stand nearly directly behind him. He would rather strangle her and break her neck than give her any comfort. It was not a cruel wish, rather it was the desire to show her exactly what she had done to him. But, he was being kind. He had not dragged her behind a horse, had not treated her worse than he would treat a scrounging dog begging at his feet. Though, she would be doing as such before long. Evelyn kept her eyes down; not in submission but in resentment of the Master Rahl. Even though she had always been his to bend and humiliate as he wished. Though, seven months ago he would never have treated her as such. But, she had created the monster. She had broken him beyond what he had been able to withstand. And in that pain Darken Rahl had found himself anew.

Rahl stood barely four feet ahead of her. He jerked her chain hard and forced her closer; Evelyn was stumbling under the unexpected heave of her lead chain. She could not stop herself before she collided lightly with his back. Darken growled a little and lifted a booted foot under his robes. He shot it out behind him, donkey kicking her backwards from him once again. "Pay attention!", he barked over his shoulder to her. He was having enough of her imprudent behaviour. "Do you want me to tighten the chain again?"

Evelyn shook her head lightly, "No Master Rahl."

"Than I suggest you pay attention.", Darken turned once more back to the table before which he stood. Upon the old oak top were several weapons and implements of torture. An agiel, a set of shackles, a heavy rope, a heavy chain, a rada'han whose inside bore small spikes, and a captured dacra. He ran his fingers over the three bladed star that was the dacra, a dark smirk coming to his lips. It was an implement that was never used on him (for the obvious reasons), but one that he knew how to use. "Mistress Justine", he spoke without looking to the blonde woman.

The Mord'Sith stepped forward, her head bowed to the blood-robed King's back. "Yes Master?"

He lifted his head a little, tearing his eyes away from the tools upon the table top. He stopped his fingers in their journey over the objects. He did not turn to her, though he spoke strangely calmly. "Bring Mistress Brionna to me."

Justine glanced quickly to Evelyn, who looked back at her harshly, before she returned her eyes to the King before her. "My Lord, Mistress Brionna was sent back to the Peoples Palace once she delivered -"

Darken growled deeply, grabbing a blade which sat upon the table, and turned swiftly to the woman in red leather. The blood coloured velvet of his overskirts, and the gold silk underskirts flowed as he whipped about. He held the hilt of the stiletto tightly; the point pressed lightly into the soft flesh under her chin; where she was not protected by her leather collar.

Evelyn had been throttled slightly, forced to move with him as he spun in the opposite direction of her. Tugged in a small semi circle behind him as he held the dirk in his left hand.

"Do **not **lie to me Justine! I know more about what has been taking place behind the closed doors of this Temple than you can even conceive. Bring. Me. Mistress. Brionna. NOW.", his eyes were wild and his voice severe as he pressed the blade of the knife a little tighter against her flesh. Until he drew a bead of blood.

Justine had tried not to show any emotion; she was a Mord'Sith afterall. But, their Master he turned so quickly that she barely saw the flash of the blade before it was put to her throat. There had been no time to pull an agiel to defend herself, and even if there had been, she would not have. It would be suicide to draw a weapon on the man, now that he had made his dominance known. Now that he had taken command of their ranks yet again. But in her eyes and voice she held just a tremor of terror. "Yes Lord Rahl. I will fetch the prisoner.", she bowed her head and turned on her heel while the King turned back to the table. She left the torture chamber in which they stood once more.

Evelyn still wasn't entirely concrete on her place in the hierarchy. Her voice came with a sarcastic edge, "And just what do you think you're going to do?"

Once more he did not remove his eyes from the weaponry before his eyes. He didn't care to listen to her ignorant tone. "She will be broken.", he was as calm as could be. His right hand still hard upon her leash.

Evelyn almost laughed as she looked towards him. She knew she was his prisoner, but she could still not fathom how quickly their places had been switched. That morning she had been his Mistress, now she was his slave. "You cannot retrain a Mord'Sith!"

Darken turned his head slowly towards her. His shadowy hair fell around his face, framing the dark look he gave her. "Than you will see what I can do.", his eyes turned and looked towards the doorway, hearing movement.

Justine stood in the doorway, in her hands she held a lead chain. She jerked it with all the force in her body, making the other woman stumble in through the stone entree way.

Brionna nearly fell her knees as the Mistress behind her forced her into the chamber and before the Master. She was filthy; kept in a cell somewhere from the moment she had dared to talk back to Evelyn seven months earlier. She had been kept for as long as Darken Rahl for one simple reason; she was to be his prize when he was rebuilt in the way they wished. But that time would never come. Justine lifted one booted foot and struck Brionna in the lower back. The Mord'Sith staggered forward, before tripping over her own bare feet. She fell to her feet before Darken Rahl. She looked up slowly; her eyes trailing over the layers of gold silk exposed under the four-petal red velvet skirts. Bit by bit up the form of the man outlined in luscious textiles. Up over the tan breast exposed by the deep plunging collar, and briefly detouring to cover the well-built arms which were bent; his hands upon his hips and his broad shoulders pulled back in proper posture. She trailed her gaze a little higher, hoping to see the gentle face of the man she had once served as personal guard. But she had been the one to bring him here, to change him. Under orders from the royal advisor, Ansleigh. And she saw there no trace of the man she knew. Placid eyes had been replaced with a steely glare that never truly left. His smile was replaced by a pursed lipped expression. He was a shadow, or less, of what he had been. He was her Master. The thought filled her with worry.

"Mistress Brionna", his voice remained unfeeling as he stared down upon the woman.

Brionna was terrified. In her time locked up she had been left utterly alone with the words _"Darken Rahl will call for you again. On that day the life you know will end."_, they had been spoken by Mistress Evelyn. Brionna had been left alone, not even touched by an agiel since the day the Evelyn beat her into submission. She had had the time to contemplate what those words meant. But now as she saw her former Mistress on a leash held tight by her Master, all good thoughts were vanquished. In seven months the need of the hard façade of a Mord'Sith had not been required. She had been completely alone, and now she was softened to emotion and fleeting feelings. Her eyes flashed back and forth between his eyes and then between his shoulders. Desperate to change the fate she thought awaited her. She shuffled forward on her knees. Her black leather undergarments creaked with strain, and her honey blonde plait, ratty with dirt, lay upon her back. She reached out filthy hands and ran them over the velvety fabric of his skirts. Stroking his hips briefly. "Please Master, let me go. I can make you forgive me for the evil I have done to you. Please.", she smiled hopefully up at him as she shifted closer to him, eyeing his belt briefly before looking up into his eyes.

Darken lifted his jaw a little, looking down his arrogant nose at the grubby woman at his feet. At the woman trying to bribe him with pleasure. He lifted his booted foot and placed it upon her forehead. With a light flex he drove her back away from himself, causing her to fall down upon her backside. He leaned down, left hand on his thigh just below his hip as his right elbow planted against his upper thigh. His right hand, still gripping the chain about Evelyn's neck, near his left hip. He leaned down till he was a foot from Brionna and towering over her (forcing Evelyn to bow as well). The woman looked back at him with eyes wide in terror. "Don't beg Brionna. And do not offer something you were never that good at.", his voice was mocking.

Brionna's cheeks flooded with blood; her blush bright under the grime on her face. She was humiliated.

Darken turned his eyes, looking once more to Justine who still held the woman's leash. "Hold her still."

Justine just nodded and kept her eyes low on the woman before their King. She held her chain tightly.

Rahl picked up the knife once more; Brionna tried to jerk away from her warden. But, Rahl was faster. He moved, grabbed her ratty braid and wrapping it about his hand. Brionna's face paled, she knew what was coming. He pulled the plait tighter and put the blade to it. He sawed his way through, and her hair gave way. Cut short. Darken threw the useless braid into the reeking pit beyond the grate.

Brionna stared in shock, wanting to cry. She knew this meant that she was no longer part of the Sisterhood of the agiel. This meant she was able to be punished beyond the punishment of a Mord'Sith. Her ratty, short, honey blonde hair fell about her jaw.

"Tie her up.", he glanced to Justine as she held onto the chain attached to the woman's Rada'han. "And make sure it is tight."

Justine nodded her head, tugging the chain hard over her shoulder as she pulled the woman over the stone tiles. The carved rock bit at the woman's bare knees as she tried to fight against the Mord'Sith dragging her.

But Brionna was strung up like a stuck pig before long; her arms shackled high above her as had been done to Darken Rahl on his first day present in the Temple of Destinies. But there was a change. From the Rada'han the chain had been removed; instead the heavy rope that had laid upon the table was tied into a metal loop that had served to hold it. It was pulled tightly through a steel eye pin, twisted into the hard stone floor. The rope forced her to stay still. The former Mistress gave a slight whimper as she was tied tightly in place by her King. All she could do was gaze down upon him as he knelt, straining the ropes so taut that they nearly snapped.

No chance for escape. She couldn't even wiggle or move at all. She could only pray to the Creator for mercy from the man.

No mercy would be given.

When Rahl was certain she was forced to remain still in place he arched a hand back over his shoulder, and let fly his anger. Backhanding the woman. Were it not for the anchor rope she would have been sent flying. But with the rope in place she was strangled by her collar. Coughing and gagging from the suddenly throttle, and gasping from the hard blow of his hand. He glared into her eyes, grabbing her by her jaw. Standing braced over the grate, as the Mord'Sith had done with him, he forced her to look at him. A large, crimson, blood-bruise was already welling up her left cheek and over part of her eye from where he had struck her. His grip was tight upon her jaw; the tips of his fingers would shatter the bone if he pressed any harder. She was sure of it. "Who gave you the orders?", his voice was harsh and gravely; he already knew the answer, but he wanted it confirmed to his ears. When she didn't answer fast enough (trying to find her voice behind her aching cheek and in her strangled throat) he gripped just a little harder.

She tried to hold on. Tried to steel herself against him. "General Ansleigh, my Lord. He said it was for the good of D'Hara and its King."

Darken's eyes narrowed dangerously, "**I **am your Master. I have **always **been your Master since before you were broken. You are to answer to **no one **but myself, is that clear?", the wintry tone of his accent sent chills down her spine.

Brionna could only barely nod her head to show her understanding; the collar was a hindrance, and his grip was keeping her still. "Yes my Lord."

"Ansleigh is nothing. He is filth in the palace that sought to take my throne for himself. He is a traitor."

Brionna's eyes widened a little as she looked to him. Her grey eyes flashed back and forth between his, looking for the truth. But like the Mord'Sith, Darken Rahl could not be read. Even a Confessor would not be able to read him now. The training had done exactly what the purpose had been intended for. It blocked off whatever there was left of a heart, locking it away in a thick coating of ice, which was encased in a dense layer of stone. There was no seeing anything of his emotions, besides anger, now. But, Brionna could also see no lie in his eyes. She lowered her eyes, "Master, forgive me. Please forgive me. I will serve you in anyway you see fit.", her shaggy locks fell around her shoulders.

He kept a bitter stare upon her, "Good, Brionna. That is exactly what I want to hear.", but Brionna had no time to get her hopes up before he finished his statement. "I want you to suffer the way that I did. The way that your _following orders _did to me. I want you to see first hand what you have done! And then, I want you to die a humiliating death.", Darken stepped back from the former Mord'Sith, watching her darkly.

Brionna had started to sweat slightly. But, she knew as Mord'Sith he should not be able to re-break her. No one before him had ever been able to, why should he be any different?

Oh, right. Because none of the other Rulers before him had been broken and trained to be a male Mord'Sith. There were reasons males were not allowed in the Sisterhood, and it wasn't for the obvious gender conflictions. Mord'Sith were cruel, but they knew when their task was completed. They knew how to follow orders. They knew when to be _kind _and _gentle._ Men, trained to be Mord'Sith (much like Male Confessors), could not contain their bloodlust and desire for cruel action. They did not follow orders from anyone, not from the higher ranking Mistresses, and not from the Lord Rahl. But, now there was no one higher to give the orders. Darken Rahl was that male Mord'Sith, and his word was quite literally Law.

Darken Rahl was a cruel Master. He had learned his torturous methods from the best: Mistress Evelyn. He was stone. He was a statue. No emotion but pride and arrogance passed over his features as the torture drew on. When cut, blood would no longer flow from his veins, only liquid arrogance. The agiel thrust into Brionna's belly over and over again until she felt weak. The tip trailed agonizingly close to her heart. If he applied just a little more pressure she would be killed. But it wouldn't matter. He would bring her back from the dead with the Breath of Life. And she would be his victim, his prey once again. And she would be until he felt the drive and the fun of it was gone.

Brionna just didn't know that it would last a complete week before she was finished with her breaking. And break she had. For the last two days she had begged him to stopped, to halt his angered action. For the last two days she pleaded with him and propositioned him in any way she could think of to make him halt. To be once again bathed in his golden light. The closest she had ever come to punishment by the hand of Darken Rahl in the past was being forced to bathe and dress Jayden Wright the day he had arrived in the Peoples Palace.

Brionna had been one Mord'Sith that had been generally exempt from punishment. This of course was the same with Mistress Rikki, and Mistress Candika. The last of which was the one that had always shared Darken's bed with him. But Brionna was his personal guard. Mistress Rikki shared the post, but of the two of them Brionna was the highest ranking. She was the one that guarded him at every turn. She was the one that stood faithfully at his left side; the closest to his heart should an assassin try and strike him. She was the one that stood at her post outside of his Chamber doors (though this place was rotated with Rikki and Candika [Candika often leaving her post to venture inside]). But now, now she was more to blame than even Mistress Evelyn. Without Brionna, Evelyn would not have had the ability or privilege to break their Master.

No. Brionna was the one. The one that was the cause of all the pain. Evelyn had merely been the instrument of destruction.

But Darken was no finished. He had only used the agiel and the knife. To cut her of her plait, and break her of her mind once again. There was still the dacra on the table.

"Master…", Brionna's quiet and strained voice sounded after he had turned from her. She knew he would never let her rest as he had for the last moments.

Rahl lifted his head from looking down upon the table. He stood still, only showing that he was listening with the movement of his head. Below him he ran his fingers over the three pointed star.

"Please Master…I have been punished enough."

He smirked as he turned his head, looking to the bedraggled woman over his shoulder. His dark tresses danced about his strong shoulder as he looked to her. His fingers closing about the cool metal. There was a hint of amusement in his voice. "Have you? Have you really? Have you felt the cruel sting of humiliation? Have you felt the bitter kiss of pain beyond your wildest belief? Hm? Have you felt the burning fear of what is to be done? Have you yet felt the agonizing worry for those you love left behind? Hm? Have you?", he turned his body around, facing her slowly. The low collar of his red velvet robes dipping and exposing tender sun kissed breast. He put his hands back on the table, leaning back slightly. The waistcoat of his robes opening a little further, exposing one nipple with the way he shifted his weight.

Brionna knew better than to let her eyes linger; she knew better than to look but she couldn't help it. Her honey hair hung into her eyes. She was black and blue, and though she thought the better of it, she could not deny herself the brief pleasure of the sight of her possessor's breast. She only wished that the sight came at a better time. Or that she had been allowed to atone for her crimes against the young King in a way other than torture. She only wished that she had been allowed to atone for the transgressions in his bed giving him pleasure, than in his torture chamber being beaten to death and brought back to life over and over again.

Brionna could only look down. She knew she had not yet suffered the way that her Master had. She knew that he would kill her before she ever reached that point. She just wasn't aware of how quickly that death would come.

The former Mord'Sith gasped in pain. The burning in her side was fantastic. The hot blood was pouring down her side. She could only glance down; the flash of the silver three pointed star was all she could see sticking from her flesh. The dacra. Brionna turned her eyes up towards her Master once more. Her brows furrowed as she looked towards him. She was in shock, and gasping in pain.

He was emotionless as he gazed back at her. "You haven't paid your debt yet. You never will fully. But this last torture will bring you as close as you can ever reach. Unless I ever gain control of the dead. Than you will never rest."

Brionna's eyes widened. She swallowed hard, beyond afraid. She knew what he was going to do to her.

And his voice sounded, "Per pennae of chalybs ego vindicatum vestri veneficus. Per lacuna of ventus ego terminus vestri vita. Exuro iam pro umquam in barathrum.*" His voice was deep and flowed with the ancient spell like silk.

Brionna groaned in pain as she started to shake. The tremors ripped through her body like an earthquake through the land. She nearly throttled herself on the collar around her through with the lead like anchored into the stone floor. But she wasn't in control of her movements as the spell electrified her body. From the wound in the side, a green vapour poured, drawn out by the dacra. It slithered its way through the atmosphere towards Darken Rahl. He threw his head back as he inhaled deeply. The vapour flowing into his lungs and creating Lightning in his blood. The magic claimed by his body; the han of the Mord'Sith bonding with the magic of the Rahl Bloodline. Brionna looked up at him, panting tiredly. Her eyes were starting to blur. The image of her Master swimming back and forth between clear reality and smeared haze of colour. And finally it was black.

Brionna was dead.

Darken ripped the three winged star from the dead woman. The force caused her to swing slightly back and forth. He turned his eyes back to Evelyn once more. "A Mord'Sith cannot be re-broken, can she? Hmph.", he turned away from the woman in white leather and a chained collar.

Evelyn looked down, bowing her head ever so slightly. "I am sorry my Lord.", but her voice was void of any true regret.

Darken didn't seem to care. As long as she knew her place. He turned to Justine once more. "Justine."

The blond sea-eyed Mord'Sith lowered her head a little to show her acknowledgement of his words. "Yes Father Rahl?"

"Make ready my war horse. It's time I return home.", he glanced towards her.

Justine looked up quickly; she felt just a little of the blood drain from her face. "So soon my Lord? You would not wish to stay and-"

"What I wish is to return home!"

She simply nodded, glancing briefly towards Amberlee. She didn't want to be the one to say it (though she knew the other woman would never be the one to voice it either), but both of the high ranking Mord'Sith would rather not see him leave. Whether through loyalty to their Master via magic, or through some strange twist of Stockholm Syndrome, they felt a deep connection with the man; they had seen to the moulding of his current state, yet bore little of the burden.

Amberlee only glanced back with her harlequin eyes. Answering her comrade's fears with her own. A dark gaze sealing what they felt for the Master.

"Of course my Lord. Right away.", Justine nodded her head once more, before turning her back to the man who still held the dacra. She felt no need to further press him. She felt no need to have him turn his power on her, and steal her han and her life. She felt no need to be ungifted. The thought of the Underworld was not what she was afraid of. Only the loss of her own magic.

The massive black Friesian stood pawing at the moss covered earth. The night coloured war horse was great seventeen hands tall, and heavily muscled. He was burdened with blood red leather riding tact; all that the Mord'Sith had had to offer. But for now it would have to do. Nothing else was apparently at the ready. That would have to change, Darken thought to himself. Every Temple of the Sisterhood should be ready in the possibility that their Master came to visit them. And he would. But it would be without warning.

Darken Rahl stood beside the horse, tightening the leather straps of the riding tact. Crimson leather creaked slightly as he moved. Leather that fit him like a glove. A very wide belt, tightened by three separate belts, hugged his slim waist. A tall leather collar protected his neck and his collarbone, as a leather holster covered his left thigh. The holster held the agiel he had assumed ownership of. His dark hair was gathered back behind his head, and tied with a red leather strip. The shorter locks fell about his face and framed his severe expression.

Amberlee stood behind him with the chain that held Evelyn wrapped about her gloved hands. "What should we do with her, Master?" Evelyn merely grumbled, but Amberlee jerked the chain hard. "Quiet."

Darken glanced up from the tightening of his saddle once more, gazing darkly up from the side of his eyes. "Attach the chain to the saddle.", he turned to Evelyn, who looked moderately surprised, before he smirked maliciously, "What, did you think I would let you ride with one of us after your bad behaviour? Ooh, I'm sorry.", his voice was full of wicked amusement as he mocked her own words. He turned to Justine as she stood to the side waiting for further instruction. "Get two more horses ready. Amberlee and yourself are coming with me. You are to show the Mord'Sith of the Peoples Palace what it means to be properly broken and fully loyal."

Justine nodded her head and turned away, walking back into the stables while her _sister_ locked the chain tightly to the saddle of the King's war horse. The mount was tall, and Evelyn would have to keep pace, even if he chose to urge his beast along at a quickened pace. But unlike Evelyn, Rahl would not halt even if the woman begged for forgiveness. Even if she called him Master. And she had made him this way. She had created this monster.

Amberlee stood behind her King as she anchored the chain in place. Darken was paying her not attention as he leaned down, inspecting all the straps and buckles on the horse's tact. Giving the task one last check. The Mord'Sith trailed her eyes over his form; clad in skin tight red leather, close as a glove. He was dressed like the rest of the members of the Temple of Destinies (barring Commander Nightshade who wore the typical leather and chain mail armour of the Dragon Corp), but the leather clung to his body unlike it did with the female Mord'Sith. She watched as he leaned; the leather pulled slightly over his backside as it creaked. She smirked a little to herself. Maybe being informed that she and Justine were to follow him to the Peoples Palace was not as horrible as it seemed. Not if she was able to witness this.

Justine returned, leading two geldings. She caught Amberlee's expression and smacked her hard with the back of her gloved hand to her shoulder. "Keep your eyes off of him. At least while he is capable of noticing it!", she hissed through clenched teeth as quietly as she could.

Darken smirked to himself as he kept himself turned away from the three Mord'Sith. Their attempts to keep him from hearing them were amusing. So what if they raked him up and down with their eyes? They had seen him completely void of all covering. What made the Mord'Sith leathers he wore any more embarrassing? In fact, it was the constant state of nakedness that had taken from him any embarrassment. The Mord'Sith leathers were merely better for travelling the distance they would have to cover. It would also make a very visual point to his own personal body guard Mord'Sith in the Peoples Palace. It would make the point that he was now completely their Master. That he had been through the same breaking that they had been through, and he had been changed by it. That he was now indefinitely in command of their Order. And to the others, it should strike fear into their hearts. But for now, what it did for the women was most likely just keep their attention.

He smirked to himself as he felt two pairs of eyes upon his posterior. He straightened himself out once more, before putting his left booted foot into the stirrup and pulling himself up into the saddle. Swinging his leg over the horse easily, despite the groaning leather covering his body. He looked to them over his left shoulder. "Are you quite finished staring? May we get a move on, or are you otherwise indisposed?"

Amberlee blushed a slight shade but started laughing as she was caught. Justine on the other hand was less amused with the revelation. The blood flooded into her cheeks, and she cleared her throat. "Yes my Lord, we can be on our way.", she glared quickly to the still laughing Amberlee, before mounting her gelding. Amberlee merely rolled her eyes and followed suit.

Darken kicked the war horse into action. The sudden spurt of speed jerked Evelyn off of her feet. Briefly making her stumble before she had to jog to keep up with her Master, lest she be dragged and hanged by the collar.

* Spell translates to English from Latin_: With wings of steel I claim your magic. With words of wind I end your life. Burn now forever in the Underworld._


	13. Chapter Twelve: Revolution

**Disclaimer: **See previous Chapters

_**Chapter Twelve: **_**Revolution**

Evelyn was dragged the entire three hundred and thirty three leagues. She was drawn, stumbling, behind the great Friesian for the complete one thousand miles. Through the Forest of Weeping Moss, over the rocky Flats of Senewyn, through the barbarous Caves of Eternal Darkness, and finally once more into the Azrith Plains. The Peoples Palace was growing closer.

The People of D'Hara had heard rumours, but rumours was all that could be said of them. They had heard whispers, from the East, that the King was returning to them. That he would return to power and take the Regent, Ansleigh, from his false place upon the throne of D'Hara. That once again all would be well with Darken Rahl as head of the country. But they were merely whispers. No one could know for sure if there was any truth behind it, though they all prayed for the return of the King.

The months without Darken Rahl had been hard; Ansleigh was far from a kind or forgiving man. Under Ansleigh's rule, the people had suffered horribly. They dared not ask for help from him, else they faced execution. Ansleigh was trying to frighten people into submission. He sought to make the people of D'Hara a tough and hardened race who, out of fear, would do anything for their Master. No matter who that Master was.

And though it had been beginning to work, there were always those that fought against the presence of the false King. Men, and women, remained true to the True King: Darken Rahl. He was not a forgotten corpse laying rotting in some cell like the Advisor and the Commanding Generals would have them believe. There were those that knew better; only with a Rahl in power could the magic of the Land still be in place. Only under the rule of a Rahl (even if he was not present) would the weapons of the patrolling Mord'Sith singing their agonizing song. But even the people that were not aware of these telling signs, did not give up hope. They prayed that the King still lived, and for their prayers they were given relief. In their blood, with the ancient magic cast upon the land of D'Hara, they could feel the bond with Darken Rahl. He was still alive. But he was lost to them. At least while Ansleigh laid siege to the land.

But it was not time to give up hope, even when all hope seemed lost. Even when it seemed as though there was no lasting sliver of hope for the return of Darken Rahl, they knew they had to hold true. If they could survive Ansleigh's rule, than eventually he would die. He was ancient now as it was.

Then the whispers came from the East. A man, dressed in Mord'Sith leathers and followed by three Sisters of the Agiel, had been spotted. A man with the dark halo of hair matching that of the Father Rahl. A man with an arrogant presence. The people knew that males were never made into Mord'Sith, and so they could only come to one conclusion; Darken Rahl, their beloved Master, was returning to them. Broken, perhaps, or perhaps he wore the leather as protection and disguise. Either way, Darken Rahl was soon to be reaching the Peoples Palace, and there he would wreak his vengeance. There he would take back what was rightfully his. And then all would go back to the same calm and tranquil nature that had lain when Darken Rahl was King.

The whispers were right; Darken Rahl was returning home from the East. But it was unlikely that the pace of D'Hara would ever return to it's predicted norm ever again. Darken Rahl did not know if he had it inside of him any more. And that didn't bother him in the least.

Like the rising sun, Father Rahl charged across the Azrith Plains. The great war horse beneath him galloped at a powerful pace. The black mane and tail flowed like water through the air; a gallant banner for a valiant Sovereign. The Mord'Sith followed behind their charging Master, on powerful, but lesser, horses. The bay coloured Finnhorses racing behind the Friesian.

Evelyn had been given one small sympathy. She sat behind her Master, exhausted and beaten. Bruised and bloody. She held as tightly as she could to the saddle, though she sat upon the rump of the large war horse. Her hair was falling out of the braid she wore, and she was barely alive, but she held tight. She was lucky for this small amount of sympathy. She would have easily been hanged by the collar she wore had Darken Rahl charged with her still stumbling along behind him.

Children lined the outer walls of the upper level of the city that was the Peoples Palace. Young, and older, ran about the wall, watching the three riders came over the Plains. One small voice rang out excitedly, "FATHER RAHL!", the little girls voice was nearly consumed by the wind, but it just barely reached Darken's ears. He had to smirk, just a little. He raised his head, looking up towards the children as he and his Mord'Sith made his way closer to the gates of the Peoples Palace. He took one hand from the reins and held up his gloved hand to the children; acknowledging them. He sat straight in his saddle, the leather over his body creaking and groaning slightly. Hundreds of feet above, the children cheered, overjoyed to see their beloved Father Rahl returning to them.

The great stone gates stood ominously overhead as the three horses came to a halt. Feardorcha, the great war horse, threw his head up and down tossing his mane as he snorted and pawed at the earth before the gates. Chomping at the bit. Darken Rahl lifted his face, looking up at the immense gates. His steely eyes flashing back and forth before he spoke, "Ianua of calx planto via pro vestri Rex rgis.", the marble cracked and groaned before slowly giving way. Opening slowly dragging over the gravel and scratching over the earth. He nudged Feardorcha into the opening, leading them into the internal bustling city of the Peoples Palace. The capitol of D'Hara. The large war horse flicked his tail as he trotted into the confines of the city. The iron shoes clattered over the cobble stones.

Amberlee and Justine could only follow their Master in, as the people made way. They looked on and cheered, seeing the face of their adored King, as the three horses and four riders entered the precincts of the Peoples Palace.

Ansleigh sat in the carved wooden throne of the Rahl bloodline. The line of Kings. He was dressed in blood red velvet, as opposed to the black he wore under the rule of Dark Rahl. His white hair laid about his aged shoulders; upon his forehead sat a gold circle decorated by a ruby, the size of a small hen's egg, cultivated from the jewel mines of Athenasia. The circlet had last been worn by Darken Rahl four years earlier, during the King's official coronation at the age of twenty-one (though the young man had been ruling for almost eleven years before that). To the right and left of Ansleigh stood Mistresses Rikki and Candika. They were his protectors, his personal body guards. If it had not been for them and the other Mord'Sith in the Peoples Palace, those still loyal to Darken Rahl would have risen up and destroyed Ansleigh by now. People such as General Egremont, the leader of the Third Battalion. The one section of the Peoples Peace Army that would always been loyal to the rightful King, even in the darkest of days. Rikki with her harsh face and black hair stood at perfection attention; her shoulders pulled back as she stare into oblivion towards the doors of the Throne Room. Candika stood the other side of Ansleigh. Her caramel flesh and her dark golden hair were a stark contrast to her blood leathers. Her earthy eyes gazed towards the wooden entranceway.

And the heavy wooden doors creaked. They groaned as they were pushed open from the outside. Normally it took two guards, one driving each door, to open them without magic. But there on the other side stood one man, dressed in glove-like red leathers. The roar of the crowd outside the entry filled the large marble room and echoed off the stone. There were no clear words, only the sound of joy and celebration.

Darken Rahl stepped his way inside his throne room. The agiel still held fast in the holster upon his toned left thigh. Above the cruel rod was a golden sheathed dagger, held by a thin and decorative black leather belt; capped and decorated with silver pieces. The dirk had been given to him before he entered the actual Palace once again.

It was the one belonging of the line of Kings that General Egremont had been able to keep from the mad Advisor. The dagger of Panis Rahl, and most likely the ancestors before him. The dagger used mostly for ceremonial wear and purposes. A dagger meant to make the King appear as though he was able to defend himself (though at least with Panis before him, it had been a true weapon). But Darken Rahl was different. He had always been a fighter, but had chosen kindness above the spilling of blood. But all was changed now. The blade, long starved, would taste blood again before the night was through. Before the evening devotions if he had it the way he wished.

As Darken Rahl stepped into the room, his boot heels clicked. The chain held in his right hand chinked together as he came to a halt. The woman bound to the other end stumbled her way in behind him. Standing quietly with her head bowed behind him. Evelyn. Still dressed in her now filthy and torn white leathers. Her nearly black hair was coming loose from it's once tight braid. But with the Rada'han about her throat, and her hands bound nearly all the time, she had no time to repair the fashion.

Amberlee stepped up to his right-hand side, as Justine stepped up to his left in perfect sync with her night haired _sister_. The two Mord'Sith stood at perfect and precise attention with their Master.

Briefly the eyes of Candika lit up as she laid them upon a sight for sore eyes; the sight of her former Master. The King of D'Hara. But then duty pulled her back to her senses. Rikki had drawn her agiel, ready to battle the two _sisters _that stood at the man's side. She gripped the red leather wrapped hilt of her own weapon tightly; the leather of her gloves squeaked slightly.

Ansleigh's azure eyes seemed to widen as they fell onto the form of the young King in the Mord'Sith leathers. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Yes, it had been some time since the last report of the breaking had come from Evelyn, but he thought nothing of it. He honestly suspected that the training was just taking her full time. But now, as the man before him jerked the chain again, Ansleigh saw the truth.

The wickedest Mord'Sith in the Kingdom was reduced to a prisoner. A pet. The dark haired woman in white stumbled forward as she gripped at her collar with dirty gloved hands. She gasped a little. As she fell upon her knees just in front of Darken Rahl. She coughed slightly as the Rada'han had briefly pressed to her windpipe.

The elderly man's eyes narrowed, glaring at the King. This was not the man he expected. He wanted a wickedly cruel man, but a wickedly cruel man he could control if the need arose. But he had never been able to control the young Rahl, why should he have been able to even after a breaking by the Mord'Sith? "Kill the _sisters, _and bring Darken Rahl under your control.", the white hair man hissed to the Mord'Sith at his sides. Rikki gripped her agiel all the tighter as she marched from her place. Candika followed suit, just half a beat behind her sisters.

Amberlee and Justine stood with their agiels held to the side, their feet spaced apart and braced. Their heeled boots making them stand all the stronger. They watched emotionlessly as the other women in blood red came all the closer; waiting for their orders from the Master who stood between them. "Disarm them.", his voice came as a cold winter wind. It was the only direction the two women needed. In perfect and choreographed sync they moved forward, meeting the Mord'Sith of Ansleigh. Together they matched Rikki and Candika blow for blow, driving the women back. They were far more disciplined, as the Sisters of Destiny had always been. Evelyn had been their Mistress, and she had been a harsh trainer and tactician, but now the Master Rahl was their commanding force. And after his own breaking at the hands of Evelyn, he was their life or death. To go against him was suicide.

Justine blocked Rikki's weapon, and brought her knee up hard into the woman's corseted abdomen. The rush of breath from the black haired Mord'Sith wheezed out passed the blonde woman's ear. It was her chance. As Rikki stumbled and tried to regain her breath, Justine kicked her legs out from under her. Rikki gasped and groaned as she landed on her back upon the white marble floor. But it was too late. Death had come on better trained wings. Justine knelt to the side of Rikki instantly, and shifted the agiel, twirling it in her fingers until the tip pointed down. She gripped it hand and drove it down into the woman's breastbone. Rikki convulsed for a moment, before she fell motionless. Finally the Keeper's prize. Nearly black blood seeped from her mouth in death. Justine stood, panting, as she took Rikki's agiel from her lifeless hand. She turned to Darken Rahl and returned to him, bowing her head and offering the agiel in her gloved hands.

He gazed down at her, and shook his head. He held up a gloved hand. "No Justine. That is your prize. The first of your reward for defeating Mistress Rikki. It is yours to keep.", like silk his voice flowed over the flaxen haired Mord'Sith, and filled her with a deep pride. She had not felt that feeling with Evelyn as her Mistress.

Amberlee was taking a little longer to kill Candika, but it was not through inability. She was toying with woman. Amberlee would block the agiel, or let it touch her (as a Mord'Sith the pain did little to distract her), and throw her elbow. She broke the caramel beauty's nose with one jab, before thrusting her own agiel into the woman's belly. Driving the King's former favourite back. When Candika stumbled back and lifted her hand to nose in shock, Mistress Amberlee took her chance. She spun, her foot lifted, and kicked the other Sister of the Agiel in the jaw. The force snapped Candika's head to the side and broke her neck as Amberlee's nearly blue braid lashed out. Candika fell to the marble floor, dead as any of her ancestors. The agiel dropped from her hand.

Amberlee lifted the weapon and returned to her Master. Offering the weapon to him as Justine had before her. Again he turned down the offer, and she was left to slip it into her belt.

Together the two surviving Mord'Sith turned around, facing Ansleigh slowly. Standing side by side with their King.

The white haired man narrowed his eyes. He was about to make one very stupid mistake. One very common mistake, with uncommon side effects. He had not seen the King unshackle the white clad Mord'Sith during the skirmish. He had been only concentrated on the fighting of the four women. But he knew if he let any of the three red leather covered people close, it would be his end. But it was a common mistake.

Ansleigh lifted his hand. He had been trained in the usage of basic spells by Panis Rahl himself when he was younger. It was meant to be used to protect the ruling Lord Rahl (whether that was Panis or his son Darken), not against him. But as he started to cast the Wizard's Web, which he prayed would keep Darken Rahl or his Mord'Sith from moving, he realized his mistake.

Four leather gloved hands raised with spread fingers. Amberlee, Darken, Evelyn, and Justine all turned the magic back towards it's caster. It was said that any magic turned against a Mord'Sith would be returned ten times more powerful, and ten times more painful. But with four Mord'Sith, four of the best trained Mord'Sith, the magic was a hundred thousand times stronger. Each of them compounded the power of the last. And with their Master being the most powerful Wizard in the world (now that the Great Wizard had fled and gone into hiding), the magic was at its most powerful.

The weight of the magic snare was crushing. All around him the web he had cast, constricted against Ansleigh. He feared that the tautness of the spell alone might end his life. Even if he knew in the back of his mind that Darken Rahl would never allow such an end of him. Yet it barely kept the fear from his eyes as the blood leather wearing man marched towards him.

Ansleigh, stupidly, still wore the crown of D'Hara. The circlet worn by Kings from the very beginning. Since the first Rahl ruled his section of D'Hara. The large ruby, with it's hundreds of facets, glittered like a red star.

The red gloved hand of Darken Rahl reached out, passing through the Wizard's Web without difficulty. He gripped the diadem, and ripped it from the old man's brow as his face remained cold and emotionless.

Ansleigh cringed a little, but only his face was capable of moving. He would have jerked from the pain, but the Web blocked him. With the crown, Darken Rahl had ripped out a portion of white hair. Not like the male Mord'Sith would have at all cared.

"You wanted a cruel monster of a King. And you've gotten exactly what you wished for.", Rahl threw the crown as one would a discus, to his right side while he kept his face and eyes locked upon his former Advisor. The gold band spun through the air, before being caught in Justine's arms and held against her breast for a moment. She lowered her arms, and gripped the band in one gloved hand.

But soldiers loyal to Ansleigh had seen the intrusion from places of watching. They had not recognized the King out of his white or red flowing robes and in the skin tight crimson leathers. They had feared for Ansleigh's life (equating Ansleigh's survival with the return of their true King, because only the Advisor knew of his location), and in their fear had called for the Mord'Sith. The group of twenty women dressed in red was lead by a redheaded Mord'Sith with pale blue eyes. Mistress Jessica. With their agiels drawn, the Mord'Sith flooded into the throne room like a cancer.

Amberlee and Justine glanced back and forth to each other, before drawing their double agiels. The circle was dropped to the floor. It clattered before it was forgotten. Evelyn drew her white leather weapon, and with her two _sisters _danced the familiar dance. Shifting their weight anxiously back and forth on high heeled feet. Waiting for the attack.

Darken had had his back to the entrance, though he was far from unaware of the situation. When neither side made the first move, he slowly turned himself on his heels. He drew neither agiel or dagger, simply gazing towards the crowd of warrior women. Red leather groaning over every joint of his body.

Jessica moved her eyes towards the male Mord'Sith and away from Mistress Evelyn as soon as she sensed the slightest movement. Her blue eyes were constricted, a harsh look upon her features as she watched him. But the moment he turned, a gasp came from her lips, and rang through the crowd of women as their eyes widened.

The King had returned to them. Their Master had returned. And he was more than their Master in name. The thought of male Mord'Sith was to a Mord'Sith what the thought of a male Confessor was the Confessors. It was an abomination. A being so cruel and evil that even the Master would not be able to control. But what if the male Mord'Sith was the Master? The thought had not occurred to the Order. Ever. Of course the line before Darken Rahl had been taught how to withstand pain (in some cases). Others had been taught the Breath of Life (Darken Rahl for example had learned that spell.), but never had a ruling Rahl been broken into a Mord'Sith. It simply was not done. And therefore the thought struck fear into stone hearts.

The Mord'Sith could only stare at him with mouths agape for a moment. Their eyes raking up and down his leather clad form. Not for the reasons that Amberlee and Justine had (they more enjoyed the view rather than took to heart the meaning of the leather). Mord'Sith leather could only be worn by one that had been broken and retrained, rebuilt into a being that was cruel. A being that could feel no love any more. A being that only contained hatred. That was why they were then Mord'Sith.

In sync the women bowed their heads, putting their free hands upon their thigh as they knelt before their Master's feet.

Darken smirked malevolently to himself as he turned once more to Ansleigh. The wicked smirk took on a turn and became a cruel smile, "Thought the Mord'Sith would save you, did you? Don't you know they are loyal only to the ruling Lord _**Rahl**_?", he half laughed, the _humph _coming from his throat. "Last I checked, you were nothing but an Advisor. And not a good one at that."

Ansleigh, still forced to kneel, grumbled a little.

"I'm sorry, what was that? Did you say something?", Darken was still smirking. He took joy in toying evilly with the man.

"I said that you will never be half the King your father was! You should have died that day and not him! He could have had another, better son!", Ansleigh forced himself to be able to spit at the blood leather boots of the King.

The good and amused mood was diminished. Darken's nostrils flared and his eyes widened wildly as his temper rose and reached it's breaking point. It was painful enough bringing to light his father's horrific death, but to say such things about himself? How could he have wished death upon the child that had been Darken Rahl? A ten year old boy? How could he have wished any harm upon any child. His gloved hand shot through the Wizard's Web once more. He gripped the man by his thin throat and forced him up to his feet; the tendrils of magic snapped and released the man. But the strong grip did not.

For a moment, Ansleigh was relieved to feel the grip of the magic give way, until he realized that in the Wizard's Web he had been relatively safe. But now, broken of the enchanted chains, he was able to be moved, destroyed. He fought back against his former charge, but the young man's grip was stronger than he had given him credit for. He could barely swallow his worry as Rahl moved, passing out of the Throne Room and dragging the Advisor behind him. He could barely swallow under the hard grip crushing his throat.

The golden dagger glinted maliciously in his place upon the young King's belted hip.

Though Ansleigh continued to struggle, and pull at his arm, Darken ignored him. There was only one thing in his mind. One task to be completed. One last service to be given by the elderly man. Darken dragged him down the winding halls, through pathways unused in years, and finally to ominous onyx doors.

Ansleigh lifted his eyes up towards the towering black doors, and he paled. This study had not been used since Panis Rahl had ruled. It was the one place of the Palace that Darken had refused to turn to. The one ancient magic that he had learned that he had sworn to never use. But now that all of his other convictions had been shattered, what was one more? What was this last promise? Why should one last vow stand in his way of power.

Darken lifted his free hand, the one that was no gripping the thin throat of his former advisor, and waved it slowly before the door. The Onyx rasped and groaned as the doors parted ways and opened up. Revealing a rose marble chamber, in which stood hundreds of candles in sconces, and torches upon the walls. He merely had to cast his blue eyes to the first torch before the faggot leapt to life; crackling with life fire. The light raced around the room; each torch and every candle was lit in moments. The golden glow giving the room a strangely cozy feeling.

A very misguided feeling for this room.

Ansleigh was jerked inside, and lifted suddenly by his throat, before he was slammed down. He groaned, and froze, feeling the cold stone under his back. The sacrificial table. He knew the exact room he was in. It was the Lord Rahl's Divination Chamber. When Rahl's hand moved from his throat, Ansleigh tried to sit up, to escape. But the hand was quickly put back upon his chest, and he was thrust down. The other hand strapped Ansleigh's wrists down. When the older man's upper half was secured, the male Mord'Sith strapped his ankles down. His feet in place. The man could squirm all he wanted, cry out for help all he wished, but nothing would come of it.

Darken reached down and gripped either side of the red velvet robes covering the man's torso. He gripped tightly before he threw his shoulders back. The fabric gave way like butter; splitting with easy. He tossed the pieces to the side, exposing the old man's white chest and belly. As Ansleigh fought against the leather straps holding him, he looked up to his King with fear. He knew what was coming, but he was silently praying to he Creator, or the Keeper (whoever was listening), that this would not come true. Darken reached and drew the dagger from the golden scabbard upon his hip. The steel blade glinted in the warm auburn light of the room.

Ansleigh had started to sweat, his eye crossed as he gazed at the point of the blade coming closer. He finally couldn't help but exclaim anxiously, "My Lord! You swore to never perform this magic!"

Rahl moved his eyes from the man's white abdomen and back to his blue eyes. One dark and perfectly plucked brow raised. "And one promise should alter my life? All my others have been broken. Be still now.", his eyes turned back to the task at hand.

But Ansleigh was still fighting for his life, "But you swore to only ever practice this magic, should the need arise, on your enemies! On those that would go against you my Lord. On men that had wronged you!", he hoped to holy hell that that had struck a remaining good chord inside of the King.

Instead Darken cackled suddenly. Ansleigh could feel the colour draining out of his face. The fear growing, and the sweating worsening. "And have you not just described yourself? You have done me wrong, Ansleigh! You are the cause of my pain and suffering. You will die, and in your death you may yet serve me.", as he spoke he plunged the blade down into Ansleigh's flesh. Just below his breastbone. He dragged the dagger down as hard as he could; the flesh split with ease as the blood boiled up. He turned the dagger and cut a quick hook to the left. A pseudo J.

The Advisor screamed so loud he thought the whole Peoples Palace would hear him. And perhaps they could. But whatever they heard, they tended to ignore. The pain was unbearable. The burning of split flesh was worse than any agiel. Yet it was exactly what he deserved; at least in Darken Rahl's twisted and broken mind. The pain was so agonizing, that he had started to lose consciousness. The world around him and the man over him swimming in and out of focus.

Darken moved with calculated cruelty. Each move was slow and unhurried. He slid the bloody blade once more into the golden sheath. The steel rang as it made contact with its golden home once more. Such a pretty sound, for such a cruel metal being. He glanced down at the now quiet man, but his eyes were bored, as he lifted his left hand. He turned his eyes once more to his fingers and started to calmly pluck the leather glove's fingers away from his. Loosening one glove and removing it before he started on the other. When both gloves had been removed he laid them down on the stone table at Ansleigh's side. He placed one hand upon the table, arm turned and palm's heel upon the side of the stone edge as he leaned in close. Peering uninterestedly into the open cavernous injury. He lifted his right hand, as he leaned with his weight upon the left, and made his hand into a paddle; plunging it into the wound. Ansleigh cried out once again, but it was a strangled cry through barely conscious lips. Darken stood straight as he drew a length of bowel out of the wound. He held the bloody entrails in two hands as he looked it over. Tossing it bit by bit to the side as one would while examining lengths of rope.

And then he saw his answer. And he was infuriated. Where his hands gripped the intestine, the flesh charred and turned black. Burned with a controlled scorch of Wizard's Fire. The man whose entrails they were groaned in pain, but not much more came from him.

Darken turned angry eyes down upon him. "I would have killed you after you served me this last time Ansleigh, had you not kept this from me for months! For this you will be left here. Oh, and by the way, it is not my cuts that will kill you, but Lady Time!", he growled and threw down the length of gore in his bloody hands and grabbed his leather gloves from the stone sacrificial table. He was fuming. He was beyond angry. He marched to the door, but stopped. Glancing once more over his shoulder to the elder man. He smirked evilly once more. "Your death will come. In two or three days.", he grinned, bearing his teeth with a dark expression, before he turned around, leaving through the opened door way. Behind him, the torches and candles extinguished themselves, and the Onyx doors closed. The Chamber forgotten once again.

Justine. She would be the pacifying hand he needed.

The bath was drawn, the water hot in the private Roman Bath of his bathhouse. Darken sank into the water slowly, before tilting his head back and wetting his dark hair. His eyes were closed, but he could feel the blond Mord'Sith close by. He smirked to himself as he remained partially submerged in the water.

Justine moved closer and around behind him. She ran her hands up and over his spine, before branching out and caressing his broad shoulder blades. Her hands moved up and gripped his shoulders before her fingers started working the flesh free of tension. She laid her cheek against the back of his neck while she massaged his sun kissed flesh. She moved close against his back, letting him feel her warm breath upon his damp flesh. His neck finally free of the leather collar he had worn for so long.

Darken couldn't help but moan in his state of pleasured relaxation. He sank a little in the warm water, letting it wash over him once again.

It was good to be home.

When the bath was completed, Darken dressed himself once more in red grenadine with gold silk embellishments. His underskirts were impossibly soft cranberry velvet and hung loosely from his hips. His coat over his robes was a stiffer red velvet, decorated in gold silk embellishments, and fastened with a gold and ruby clasp at his waist. His brunette hair was dried into slight and soft waves. It danced about his broad shoulders.

Amberlee, Justine, and Egremont stood at his side as he stepped out onto the stone balcony above one of the many large squares. Egremont had been named Advisor the moment Darken emerged from the Anthropomany Study. The task could not have gone to a better or more loyal man. He was likely to always listen to his King, and give advice only when asked. Egremont could be trusted, even when it seemed that Darken could trust no one.

The sun was starting to set; the sky illuminated grand variations of violet, rose, and orange hues. The stars started to sparkle in the violet hues as they grew darker.

Darken held his breath slightly. He didn't know why it worried him - well, perhaps worry was too strong of a word. He was wary of what would happen when the people laid eyes over him again. But as the evening summer breeze ran her fingers through his dark locks, a cheer rose up from the people. They were screaming in celebration and applauding. Beyond overjoyed to see the Father Rahl once again. Beyond happy to see the man that had always been so good. One man's voice sounded out above the others, "The Old King is Dead! LONG LIVE THE KING!"

And finally Rahl had to smile.

News of Darken Rahl's change in management spread from D'Hara and through the Midlands like a plague. Those that thought D'Hara to be evil in the days before, were now concreted in that belief. Stories of Ansleigh's horrible death had been spread by Rahl's men themselves, under permission from the Father Rahl. He sought to make Ansleigh an example of what would happen should people disobey. Yet the people of D'Hara were happy as ever under the rule of Father Rahl. Darken may have been changed, but he was still the rightful King. And he was still better with the people, so far, than Ansleigh had been. Yet there were those in the Midlands that knew better than to listen to the tripe of rumours that came spilling through the Boundary. There were those that knew Darken Rahl and knew him not capable of doing such horrible things.

Yet the Mother Confessor Serena, in her place in Aydindril, took these rumours to be the start of the end. The beginning paces of the Prophecy put into motion.

Egremont, who had not told Darken of the Prophecy (he believed he could avert it before the King would ever have to know) had sent messengers to Brennidon. Offering an ultimatum. Give over the Seeker, and live their lives, or suffer a massacre. The people of Brennidon knew of no Seeker, and could therefore only send word back to D'Hara that they would not be moved by force.

Tarralyn finally reached the home village of her father. She was tired, and she was weak. She was eight months heavily pregnant. But she had been stopped over and over again in village after village to rest with friends. The travelling should have only taken a month or so, yet it had taken seven. But perhaps it was for the best; there was no unneeded strain put upon young mother or child.

The gates of Brennidon had never looked so friendly. The dark haired woman sighed in relief, her hand upon her aching back. "Thank the Spirits", she exhaled softly to herself. She could rest soon, just as soon as she found her father. The town healer. After a moment's rest she straightened her back once again and carried her pack in one hand. Walking through the gates, she was welcomed by a gentle hug from one the guards. She had grown up with him. Tarralyn and his wife were close friends. It was good to see the Healer's daughter safe once more.

"By the Spirits! You're home - and you've got a present I see.", Alexander couldn't help but smirk a little. He kept his hand upon her heavily pregnant belly.

Tarralyn half laughed, but she was too tired to do much more than make the expression rather than the noise. "Gift indeed. I feel like a whale.", she smiled and patted the dirty blond young man on the shoulder. "Is my father-"

"Tarralyn! Oh thank the Spirits!", a tall man dressed in brown robes strode out of the main square. His hair was dark brown, but immensely streaked with frost. He was tall and thin, as his daughter. But he, unlike Tarralyn, appeared to be stretched out. He held open his arms as he made his way to her.

She turned her head and smiled brightly, "Father!", she let the man in his middle forties (though aged beyond his years), wrap his arms about her. She wrapped her arms about her father's tiny waist and hugged him back as tightly as she could, while wary of her pregnant belly.

"By the stars! You're with child, child!", Zeddicus looked down amazed. His gravely voice was laden with astonishment.

Tarralyn was both ashamed, and over the stars in excitement. "Yes father, I'm with child."

He smiled as he looked to her, "I'm going to be a grandfather.", he could barely contain his excitement. "Where is the father?", he glanced around behind his daughter, looking for her mate. Her travelling companion.

Tarralyn's heart sank as she had to bring that horrible night back into her mind. "He was taken by the Mord'Sith from his bed-"

Her father froze. He had heard of one man that had been so taken by the Mord'Sith in the last year. Darken Rahl. He turned to his daughter. "You were captured by Lord Rahl?"

Her blue eyes widened, "What? No! No! Father I-"

"He captured you and then he …he… forced you-"

"Father! Listen to me!"

"I **told **you, I **begged **you to stay clear of D'Hara!", he suddenly pulled Tarralyn closer to his breast once again.

She sighed into his chest gently. She knew there was no getting through to him. He had always hated D'Hara, even before Darken Rahl had taken power. He had hated Panis Rahl, and only assumed that Darken was his father's son in every way. She knew that no matter how hard she was to try to explain what really happened, her father would have his own opinion. And he would think he was write. What she did not know, however, was what had become of her baby's father. Her lover. She had been lucky enough to avoid the rumours that spread. At least for now. Zeddicus would surely fill her in.

The older man sighed softly as he caressed his daughter's hair. "I am sorry that such a fate befell you my dear. No one deserves such a horrible punishment. But, at least from that horrible night you gained a child to love. Even if it will be a Rahl by blood."

Tarralyn could only nod against his chest. Silently praying that her son's father was safe and no longer in pain.


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Lucid

-1**Disclaimer: **See previous Chapters

_**Chapter Thirteen: **_**Lucid**

The sweat was pouring down his body and soaking his dark hair. He groaned to himself as he tossed and turned. The sheer silk covers of the bed wrapping around him, pulling him further into the nightmares. The bed creaked and groaned as he moved. The silks twisted about his naked body.

There was no escaping.

He had been pulled back to the horror he had finally escaped. All around him was her face. Evelyn. Laughing and cackling at his pain while she beat him senseless. They all just watched and laughed. They did nothing to help him. Than again, why would Mord'Sith help their victim? But shouldn't that have been different when their victim was also their Master? Should that fact have not counted for something? Well apparently it did not, because as much as he wished they were only nightmares, he was more than well aware that he had lost seven months of his life to the torturous ways of Evelyn.

There was a war raging. A war he could not control nor stem. The Mord'Sith had broken him, as far as they could, and in the place of the man he had been he was now a monster. At least that is what he had heard Jayden whisper to one of the servant's children. He didn't know why it bothered him; it was the truth, wasn't it? He was completely different than what he had been, right?

No. And that was the reason for the war raging internally. He was neither broken and as cruel as the Mistresses Amberlee and Justine believed, and nor was he the compassionate, benevolent sovereign that the people of D'Hara were accustomed to. Darken Rahl was confused, broken, and alone. He couldn't control these two warring sides. The man he had been wanted out. He wanted to conquer all the horror that had been done to himself. He wanted to put it behind him and move on as though nothing had changed. but everything had changed, nothing was the same. Nothing was the same as it had been. And therefore the man that he had once been, King Darken, could not win the campaign. Surely he won a battle here and there, but the _monster _that he had become at the hands of Mistress Evelyn, and his own actions thereafter, was the winning foe. Lord Rahl, Master Rahl, Father Rahl. Whatever the people wished to call him, was not the same as the Father Rahl, or King Darken, that he had been. No. Darken Rahl was a shell, a shadow. He could not be whole. He could neither be the cruel façade that he showed the people since his return, or the good-hearted ruler that they had known.

They saw a tyrant, and yet they loved him. Though now the love seemed to be born of fear rather than knowing his heart.

What they did not see, was the battle raging behind icy eyes. He had kept it from them all. From Egremont. From Amberlee. From Justine. From Evelyn. Even from Jayden. Darken had taken to locking the doors to the King's Chambers for hours on end. General Egremont and Justine took it as a sign that he was working on affairs of state. But even his son, Jayden, had been kept away from the Chambers. And Jayden had always been allowed to sit with him, even during the most boring sides of ruling a Kingdom. Jayden had never been shooed away, so the boy knew it must be something worse. And with the side of the King that he had seen in the last weeks since his return, he feared that it was some horrible campaign for a Crusade. But, Jayden was wrong.

Darken had taken to locking the doors to the King's Chambers for hours on end. Behind those doors he would seat himself behind his desk with his left elbow upon the desktop, and lean his forehead into his left hand. He would grip slightly with sun kissed fingers at dark locks. He would keep his eyes closed as he sat in silence. Only trying to come to terms with what he had done to Mistress Brionna, and even Ansleigh.

One side cried out that it was merely justice for their crimes, the other cried foul. Brionna had merely been following her orders, how could he blame her for that? And yet the other side rebuked; Brionna had a mind of her own. She could have said no, it would have meant her own punishment, but she did not have to agree to the orders given to her. She could have at any time stopped what she was doing. She had been his personal body guard. She was supposed to be the one to protect him, not lead him into Hell. And that's what it had been. Pure Hell. Even the Keeper scared him less and less after he had gone through that breaking.

And then there was Ansleigh. His crimes had been great. He had proved to be a treasonous, usurping, bastard. He had turned right against the man he had sworn to protect. How Panis must have been rolling in his stone grave. Ansleigh had promised his King, during the Great War, that he would protect his young child, no matter the cost. Ansleigh had promised to take care of Darken Rahl should anything ever befall Panis Rahl. In the retained placid side of Darken's mind, he supposed that Ansleigh had in some way followed his orders, and kept his promise. He had always been there for the young King, until he turned against him and sent him to his breaking. A breaking that Darken still did not understand the need for. He had never been told why he had had been thrown to the Mord'Sith. But now it didn't matter. Once again the evil side of him admonished those thoughts. Ansleigh was a traitorous pig. He had turned against his King. He had turned against his country. He had usurped a throne that had belonged to Darken's family for at least the last three thousand years, and surely beyond that. He had thrown a young man to his supposed death. He had drove the woman that would have been Queen away in fear of her life. A young woman that Rahl was unlikely to ever trace down. If she wanted away and left no clue for him, than she did not want to be found. Maybe it was best to let Tarralyn go. There was, after all, no children to bind them together. But again, these were all of Ansleigh's crimes. And even when Darken had returned, he had attempted to turn the Master's Mord'Sith against him; they had been destroyed for their attempts. Their murders were solely to blame upon the elderly Advisor. He had even attempted to use magic against four highly trained Mord'Sith, naturally that had been the beginning of his own end, but never the less he had tried to block Darken Rahl from reclaiming his throne in that way. He had driven Darken Rahl to break the last of his oaths; to use the dark art of Anthropomancy.

No, Ansleigh had met the correct end. He had deserved every ounce of the pain he endured, and more. If it were not now far too late (by weeks), Rahl would have raised his spirit with the Breath of Life, only to perform the same horrible magic upon him again. Over, and over, and over again. Ansleigh could never be put through too much pain. He could never endure enough to come close to what Darken Rahl was feeling. What he was fighting. Ansleigh, even if he were being punished by the Keeper himself, could never feel as much pain as Darken Rahl had lived with all through his young life. He had watched his mother burn at the stake to cinders while he wept. He had only been seven years old. He had endured the beating for weeping over his mother. He had been repeatedly told that Rahls do not mourn traitors. And yet here one half of him was doing just that once again. Deep in his heart, locked away, he felt grief for both Brionna and Ansleigh, even if he would never show it. He had watched as his father was burned to charcoal by a ball of Wizard's Fire, thrust through the raising Boundary by the Great Wizard. He had endured the pain upon his own person that had come with that magic flame. He had been in sheer agony for seven years. And yet then he had not broken. He had not been made cruel. Pain alone could not create a monster as he had become.

The war spilled over. While in the company of others, he was the monster he had become. In private he was the Good King trying to recover what had been taken from him. But at night the sides went to war. Dreams and nightmares haunted him. There was no escape.

Darken continued to toss and turn. The mattress creaked as he flailed. His face contorted with his mental anguish. In his sleep he gripped his pillow and tried to bury himself within it, but there was no hiding. There was nothing to shield him from the horrific glare of the Mord'Sith Mistress as she tortured him over an over again. His screams echoed forth from his lungs, both in his nightmare, and reality. The cries rang out through the King's Chambers and reflected off of the marble all around.

He was never going to forget the punishment he bore for trying to escape the Sisters of Destiny. He was never going to forget the horrible pain and the humiliation. His burns had always been a mark of self-consciousness, since the day they were bestowed upon him by the Great Wizard. They would remain as such until the day he died and went back into the earth, of that he was certain. But before the breaking he knew that although they were a concern of his (as he had to be careful not to pull them too hard and rip them open), that no one but the right woman would ever have to see them. Tarralyn had been that right woman. And now she was gone. No, Rahl had been certain that the right woman would be forgiving and understanding of his burns. That she would only ever try to assuage his own fears and embarrassments. That the right woman would treat him no differently than any other man, no matter just how much of his body was ruined with the marks of the flame. But Evelyn had turned that self-consciousness against him. She had turned the pain of those scars against him; had used them to destroy his mind. Had thrust her agiel against them time and time again. Until they tore and bled for hours. The death of Darken Rahl had no meaning to her, not when she could give him the Breath of Life and carry on with his torture. Death wouldn't be an escape as long as she had control over him. But it wasn't only the agony that she had put him through with his scars. She had humiliated him, making the scars something to be completely ashamed of. Evelyn had made him less than human for bearing such marks. She had been disgusted by the them, and told him time and time again that no one he ever took to his bed would be willing to have him, merely for bearing those marks. She had told him that love would never be his, and he would only ever be mocked.

He believed her.

He had finally settled down into one position on his bed. Laying partially upon his back and upon his right side. His hips turned to the right and his legs curled slightly. His arms were splayed slightly, across the bed with the tender undersides of his wrists facing the sky. The silk sheets were entangled around his unclothed body. Sweat drenched his body, leaving his flesh shimmering slightly in the pale silvery moonlight. His hair was damp and heavy with sweat, sticking to his brow. His brows were still knit together with worry and dread of his dreams. He had not escaped the nightmare, merely locked into it. Unable to move or pull himself from the horrid confines of his mind. He could see every horrible thing done to him, every horrible thing he had done. Could feel the pleasure of the killing of Brionna. Could feel the adrenaline that flooded him, and the dark contentment that filled him when he stole her han and sent her to the Underworld. He could feel the sense of Ansleigh's split flesh encasing his hand. Could feel he slippery warmth of the entrails in his hands as he divined the answers to questions he asked from the Advisor's intestines. Could feel the angry heat of the controlled Wizard's Fire boil in his blood and flood through his palms, turning the flesh black. Could feel that horrid anger that raged and could not be quenched until he knew that Ansleigh had suffered and finally died.

A cool hand reached down, and brushed the sweaty tresses from Darken Rahl's brow. A woman's hand, by the feel of it.

It disturbed his dreams for a moment, but he let it go, thinking it only to be Evelyn or Justine or Amberlee. Until he realized. Evelyn had been thrown to the Mord'Sith for her own re-breaking, to make her supple and mouldable by Rahl's hands. She would be his yet. But, because she was thrown to the Mord'Sith, both Amberlee and Justine would be busy. They were the ones commanded to torture their former Mistress. They did so with pleasure. There was no other woman allowed into the King's Chambers while the King slept. No servant or Mord'Sith. No one.

Darken, feeling the cool fingers trailing gently down his left cheek, jolted into a waking state. His eyes were blurred but he narrowed them, forcing them to focus as he peered into the darkness above himself. His vision was still blurred, but he could see and sense her above himself. A woman, with pale flesh like the moon, and long dark hair like the night. She wore white; the gown of the Mother Confessor. She had no face. Darken blinked repeatedly, trying to force his eyes to focus so that he might see her visage. But, no matter how hard he persisted in looking into her face, nothing became of the blur. The rest of her was in perfect clarity. Down the silver thread stitching her white velvet gown together. His blue eyes flashed once more to her face- or where it should have been. His eyes were wide, and he could not tear his gaze from her blank face. The woman leaned closer to him, and brushed her cold hand over his cheek once again. Darken felt his heart settle a little. As much as her faceless form bothered him, and her presence confused him, he felt no threat from her. He felt no malice radiating from her. And he was so tired that as long as she was not threatening him, that it didn't bother him. His eyes were starting to flutter closed again. He almost thought that she was responsible for this sense of tranquility.

"Rólegur, kæri konungur. Sofa vel, ég mun vernda þig.", her voice was soft, like cotton, and cool like fresh water.

Darken's brows knit briefly, as he started to slip into sleep. How did this woman, who looked to be once a Mother Confessor, know High D'Haran? But before he could think it through any more, he was lost into sleep. The serenity of the woman's essence lulled him into a restful state.

But as always, the face of Evelyn arose into his consciousness. He knew the nightmares were coming, and he groaned slightly. Steeling himself and preparing to feel the pain of the torturous moments again.

But just as the nightmares started to grow and arise, the darkness of the Mord'Sith prison around him started to melt away. Darkness and death was replaced with sunlight and life. In his sleep his brows knit together.

_All around him was golden-white sunlight. The air was warm, the summer breeze just barely fluttering his shadowy hair about his face. The atmosphere smelled heavily of lilacs. Darken turned his eyes looking about himself. The garden was very familiar, all too familiar. It was the Garden of the Queen. The last time he had seen the precinct was when he had sat with his mother, the day before Panis had her burned. It still pained him, and broke his heart. _

_ Yet the dream was light hearted. He hadn't felt so calm and at peace in years. Not since he was a child. All he could do was turn in circles, looking at the garden. It was beautiful. Everywhere there were white and violet Lilac trees in mid bloom, and weeping willows, golden sunlight streamed down from the sun high above. Small white and yellow butterflies fluttered by and brushed against his tanned cheek, giving him little kisses. He almost felt guilty for being in such a beautiful place; he wasn't good enough to be there. _

_ Darken looked himself over; he was dressed in layered white silks. The fabric floated about himself with every movement he made. Thin silvery silk organza arm warmers covered his forearms and attached to silver rings on his middle fingers. Everything was embroidered with silver thread- silver wire twisted so tight that it turned to soft thread. He looked at his hands and over the silver rings. Sighing to himself. Too much finery for the darkness of his mind. But just as he started to wallow again, a woman's voice broke his thoughts. _

_ "Darken.", the voice was cool and like cotton, washing over him and lightening his soul. _

_ Darken looked up towards the location the voice seemed to come from. A little further into the garden was a marble bench, as he turned his eyes towards it he saw the woman once again. Dressed in glowing white velvet and silver silk. Her dress had a square neckline trimmed in silver, with long white sleeves that tapered at her hands, and held to her hands by the same silver rings that he wore. The outer sleeves split away from the inner sleeves, and hung down in long panels of white velvet, lined with silver silk. They were kept to her elbows by silver shimmering trim. Her underskirts, exposed beneath the splits of her white over dress, were several layers of silver silks. They laid about her legs elegantly. Her long dark hair, the same shadowy tone as his own, laid in long wavy layers. They danced in the warm summer breeze about her pale face. _

_ And then he saw it, her face. Here in his dream, in the Gardens of the Queen, she was perfectly visible. And beautiful. Her flesh was as white as snow, a bare shade rosier than her white gown, a stark contrast to her nightly hair. She held up one pale hand, with femininely long naked fingernails, and beckoned him close with a smile upon her rose petal red lips. "Darken, come here.", her smile was bright and brilliant. _

_ Darken could feel himself moving towards her, even if he was unsure of why, or as to who she was. She was a glowing radiating beacon in the storming of his mind. He didn't know why he was so drawn to her, but she was his shining light. As he moved closer he could see her eyes finally. They were a beautiful shade of Persian green, like the ocean, and they sparkled like cut sapphires. When he reached her, she beamed gently up at him, offering her hands to him. He didn't know what made him do it, but he reached cautiously and gave her his larger hand. She wrapped her own tiny hands around his palm and his fingers, carefully pulling her down to sit upon the marble bench with her. _

_ As Darken took his seat, he looked into her face. She was shorter than him, between six and eight inches, but she was petite and fairy like. What he imagined a Nightwisp without her glow must look like. Her face was beautiful; she was shining. She was beauty incarnate. At least in his eyes. She raised her white hand and brushed his dark hair from his cheek once again. But her hand was warm and comforting in his dream. She was smiling as she looked into his eyes. His heart, once burdened, lightened further. He couldn't help the small smile that spread over his cupid's bow lips. "Who are you?", his voice was soft as his steely eyes flashed back and forth between hers. _

_ She stroked his cheek again, "I am Devya. Mother Confessor, and the daughter of Magda, the first Confessor." _

_ Darken's eyes widened further than he thought they could. "But, you died three thousand years ago…"_

_ "Death does not stop anyone, Darken. Death is merely the next stage. It is nothing to fear."_

_ He smiled sadly, but it wasn't Death that scared him. It was the thought that he was broken. Not broken by the Mord'Sith, though they were ones that had caused it. No, broken as in there was something very wrong with him. And there was no fixing it. He lowered his eyes from hers, as they now seemed to bore into his soul. _

_ Devya's brow knit slightly and she lifted both of her pallid hands. She laid them gently over his strong jaw and lifted his face, turning him towards her once more. "You cannot keep doing this to yourself. You are Darken Rahl, the King of D'Hara. Father Rahl. You cannot be who you were, but you can make for yourself a new form. You have to go on, whatever the anguish."_

_ "How can you be so sure?", he looked into her eyes sorrowfully. _

_ "I was the Mother Confessor. And while I may be only a spirit now, I know the truth when I see it. You are a man divided, but not a man broken. There is nothing so wrong with you that it cannot be healed."_

_ "Mother Confessor.", he raised icy blue eyes to hers once more, looking into them as he spoke quietly. "I cannot do it alone."_

_ "You won't be alone Darken. I will be with you as long as you wish."_

_ "What is it that I need to do?"_

_ "Find the side of you that calls out the most; the side that makes the most sense to you. Find the one that is Justice to you. Only when you embrace both the Light and the Dark, will you ever be comfortable in your own skin again."_

_ He frowned and sighed softly. The Darkness was what he was fighting. But if that's what it took to be comfortable again, than he was going to have accept it. He would have to be the one thing he had dreaded during his torture. He had to be what they wanted him to become. At least it would be an easy transition. The Dark was what he was in the presence of others now. Goodness only shone through and tugged at his mind when he was alone, and when he slept. _

_ So Darkness had to prevail. Ansleigh had to win, even in death. What he had set in motion, had to succeed. Darken was losing himself in thought once more. Biting his pouting lower lip with worry. _

_ Devya reached and took a hold of his hands, gripping them gently, comfortingly. "Good and Evil resides in all of us, even in the Mother Confessor, even if she will not acknowledge it. There is no fighting it, there is no denying it. When you welcome it, you will have power unimaginable. You are not whole until you accept the evil we all contain.", the spirit woman leaned close; she smelt faintly of lemon and vanilla. A warm and soothing scent. She brushed her fingers through his dark hair and laid her lips gently onto his flesh just before her ear. A careful and gentle kiss, before she pulled away from him. "The evil we all contain, is what gives our goodness it's strength. The evil is what makes us who we are, what gives us our potency."_

_ "If that is what you believe, Confessor.", Darken looked away from her sea eyes. He ran his tongue over his teeth beneath his cerise lips as he gazed into the distance. Letting his eyes roam over the Queen's garden. He wondered why Devya would bring him into this place. But the realization that it would be a calming setting settled in. _

_ "You are not a bad person for seeking justice against those that did you wrong. You are merely human for it.", she put her hand gently upon his shoulder. _

_ Darken was looking down at the grassy path beneath their bare feet. His sun kissed and tanned, and hers snow white. "Devya", he looked up and back into her face. "You don't even know me. You don't know if I am good or I am wicked."_

_ "And do you believe me to be good?"_

_ "Of course! You were the Mother Confessor you have to be good."_

_ She smiled gently. "But you don't know me either. And you believe me to be good. Therefore you must trust my judgement, if only so that you are not a hypocrite.", She smirked a little. "You will see, Darken. You will see." , She kissed his brow gently. _

_ But the dream started to fade, the sun setting in the background. The garden turning a brilliant red-orange with the fading sunlight. Darken looked once more into Devya's face._

_ "You will see.", Devya smiled as she faded away with the rest of the fantasy. _

Reality started to increase, sparkling the way into his resting state. The sunlight was growing outside his window. There was a rooster crowing somewhere. He shifted and rolled over, trying to stay asleep. He didn't want to let go of the garden just yet. It was too comfortable there.

When at last he opened his eyes, he sighed softly and lifted his hand. Resting his hand against his lips. He gazed off into oblivion, but his mind was silent. He was happy for that. It meant for once there was no worrying. Yet, there were questions in his mind. Why was Devya in his dreams? He looked through his mind. He didn't remember reading anything about Devya or her Seeker, his ancestor, in the last few weeks. And he couldn't fathom that a spirit that was supposedly at peace with those she loved in life, would come to him just to give him comfort. They were no relation.

But the time for questions would come later. For now he just sighed in contentment, laying back in the soft pillows and mattress. Stretching himself out with his eyes closed and a slight smile on his lips.

No need to worry.

Now it was just time to enjoy the changes made to himself. Starting with the company of the Mord'Sith.


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Into The Darkness

**Author's Note: **I have no idea if I spelt the name of the tools used to make the first Confessor (the Shirkaiah) properly. If anyone knows the correct spelling, please let me know!

**Disclaimer: **See previous Chapters. Also, I own Zorya, and Oran Rahl, Devya is my friend Amber's character. Together we own their history, even though I am SURE it goes against everything.

_**Chapter Fourteen: **_**Into The Darkness**

He let all fears go. He had to if he at all desired to be at peace in his life. Devya had been correct, but what she had not told him, was that he would enjoy the darkness more than he ever enjoyed the light. Was that wrong?

He really didn't care, because if it was wrong, it still made him happy. The darkness was enjoyable. It was warm, it was comforting. In the darkness, in the wickedness of his twisting soul, there was safety. No one could do him any harm as what had already been done to him. He could not understand why he didn't enjoy the evil in his blood before now. What was so good about being holy that could overcome the pleasure of sin? He could not fathom it.

No longer was the war waging. His dreams were no longer so ghastly that he couldn't sleep and would wake up practically swimming in sweat. In fact all he saw in his dreams after taking Devya's words to heart, was the garden, where he spent his nights with Devya. She had grown to be a common sight, and her presence consoled him. She was a familiar presence. But the spirit Mother Confessor had also spilled over into his waking world. She was not contained to only the dreams he revelled in each night. When Rahl could not sleep, for reasons unknown (or he was merely busy with affairs of state), the faceless woman would appear. Glowing and radiating in her ghostly form, her featureless face no longer disturbed the young King. It was merely a mask worn; he knew her face. He knew it well. He could see her behind his closed eyes every time he lowered his eyelids. Every time he locked his steel eyes away from the world. Even now, comfortable in his skin, she was a soothing sight.

Devya was something he was used to. He was happiest in her company, if happy was a word that could describe the young man any more.

Happy was the man that the children of D'Hara had once known as their beloved Father Rahl. The man that allowed them to interrupt him no matter what he was doing. Even in the middle of councils of the utmost importance. Darken Rahl would have halted the world for them if they asked it of him. All to bring him freshly picked flowers. It was a common occurrence; happening every morning or early afternoon. Darken Rahl had always greeted them with the brightest smile, the most cheerful gratitude, and the biggest and warmest hugs. The children of the Kingdom loved him as they would love their own family. As they would love their older brother, or their father. The children were common people. They were servants' children. They were the children of the ordinary men and women of the D'Haran capitol. They were loved by their families, and by their King as though they were his children. Darken had always been the beloved sovereign. Children sought him out for company, and when he was not busy, Darken would join them in the gardens of the Peoples Palace just to play games. And the games with Darken Rahl were always the best. He was the most entertaining playmate. He was always the best at playing _Wicked King and the Seeker; _a game much like the modern Hide and Seek mixed with Cops and Robbers. Naturally Rahl always left the role of Hero (Seeker) to the children. The others arranged themselves as Confessor , Wizard, and other warriors to help defeat him - the Wicked King. The Seeker always won of course, and Rahl always provided the most amusing and dramatic deaths. The one that always tricked the children, was when the _Seeker _would thrust the wooden _Sword of Truth_ into him (Darken would make sure to get it under his arm), he would groan and gasp, clutching as his breast. Letting out groans of _"Oh Seeker! You have defeated me! I am dead! None can save me!"_, as he sank to his knees and fell over on his back. Letting his head flop to his side. He would groan and let his eyes say open, glazing over slightly. His tongue lolling from his open mouth. It always got the young children. He was so convincing. When they gathered about worriedly, he would snap and pull them close, hugging them against himself and ruffling their hair with his knuckles.

That was happy. That was joyous. That was not the man he had become. Those children had learned that fact the hard way.

_ "Father Rahl! Father Rahl!", the boy was maybe eight at the oldest. He ran into throne room dressed in a faded, dirty, and torn blue tunic over black breeches with scuffed, hand-me-down, boots. In his hand he clutched a wooden sword. Behind the boy came a little girl, probably the same age or close to it, with her hair flowing out behind her. She was dressed in black and green. There were a few other boys and girls following behind, between the ages of four and eight. They had always been the ones to play with Darken Rahl. It was the first time that they had seen Darken Rahl in seven, nearly eight months. They all looked so happy, so cheerful and so delighted. The life of a child was so simple. There was only one thing in mind; celebrating the King's return with a game. _

_ Darken looked up from the scroll he was reading, in the middle of arguing with General Egremont. He stoned his features, whether trying to stop himself from showing the children his anger, or because he was unaware of how he should react to the children running into his meeting place. He turned around and looked towards the young children. His face was still stone, and he was looking down his arrogant nose at them. "What is it? What do you want?"_

_ Jared's face fell slightly. His happy grin faded from his face. "I… I… I just wanted to ask you if you wanted to play with us…"_

_ Darken raised one brow arrogantly, "Why would I play with you?"_

_ Jared's blue eyes widened, both upset and surprised. "Because… because you always play with us Father Rahl…"_

_ Darken was getting fed up. He gripped the scroll a little tighter, until the parchment trembled with his grip. Until his knuckles turned white. He could see Egremont from the corner of his eye. _

_ The General, only a few years his senior, was trying to calm him without saying anything. Without moving. He was giving the children a sympathetic look. Darken Rahl's argument was with him, not the children. His anger, his irritation should not be taken out on the innocents. "With all due respect my Lord,"_

_ Darken turned his icy eyes towards him darkly. His lips pursed, and his glare slightly wicked. Waiting for the man to continue with what he was saying. _

_ "With all due respect Lord Rahl, perhaps a romp through the Gardens with the children will ease your infuriated heart. It could do you good. It's always alleviated your frustration before." Egremont glanced towards the waiting children once again. His eyes saying that he was trying to help them (and of course to get himself out of the line of fire). _

_ Darken Rahl spat back sarcastically, "With all due respect, General Egremont, if I desire alleviation of frustration I will turn to my Mord'Sith and not stupid children's games!" Egremont could only nod his understanding, as Rahl turned once again to the children. "As for you, can't you comprehend that I have better things to do than play foolish games? I have things that need to be done so that you have a future! Go! Get out of my sight!"_

_ Jared was shocked. What happened to Father Rahl? What happened to the fun loving King? The man that would put everything aside for the day to indulge himself in childhood games that he had never experienced as a child? Eurydice, the girl in the black dress, sniffled a little as she looked towards him. She missed the King, the man who was practically her father (her own had died a few years earlier). But the younger children, who could not rationalize what was happening, started crying. Little faces screwing up and tears flowing like waterfalls as the throne room was full of the bawling of toddlers. _

_ Darken's eye twitched a little as he looked at the children. "Stop your crying! You don't always get what you want! You're going to have to learn that some time or another. Now get out! I have work to do. Go bother your own father's and brothers. You are not my concern."_

_ Jared gaped at him. His mouth opening and closing a moment as he looked towards the man that was looking away from him once again. He finally found his voice, "You're a meany!"_

_ Darken turned to look at him, his voice sickeningly sweet, "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm a meany am I? Too bad that I'm the King and that without me the Kingdom will fall to pieces. GET OUT!", his bark rang out, bouncing off of the marble walls and echoing back ten times louder. _

_ Jared and Eurydice gasped and jolted. They turned to the younger members of their party and guided them out. Two children forced to grow up in an instant. They took one last chance, glancing over their shoulders to Darken Rahl. Looks of pure sorrow masking their faces. But when they saw he paid them absolutely no attention, they turned and continued on out of the Throne Room. Their playmate wouldn't be joining them again. _

_ Darken turned back to Egremont, opening the scroll once again. "What do you think of them?", his voice was cold as his eyes flew over the words written on the parchment. _

_ Egremont paused a moment, listening to Darken's breathing. Thinking his words over carefully, "I agree with you, of course my Lord."_

_ "Mm. Good."_

_ The children didn't know who the King was any more. Any trace of the man they had known, no longer existed. They no longer brought him flowers. They no longer tried to get him to play with them. It was clear that Darken Rahl was not willing to listen to them, or to humour them. It was clear that he didn't care like he had claimed to before. But they didn't understand it. Had they done something wrong? Had they done something to upset him?_

But Devya was something that brought out the slightly sweeter nature in his now cold disposition. And Devya didn't like the way he treated the children. She had made this clear when she, with her faceless form, had appeared nearby to Egremont. Rahl had jolted, merely from surprise, but had tried to ignore her.

Devya had become a constant companion, he had grown to care for her. Almost _love _her. But her spirit's appearance in his life frustrated him. Only in his dreams could he see her beautiful face, and she only came to him when he didn't expect her. When he desired to see her, he couldn't bring her to himself. Only in his dreams could he touch her; stroke her hair. In waking moments, his fingers passed through her like so much smoke. He wanted nothing more than to touch her as she sat at his side. He knew he must have looked insane; he had learned the hard way she was not seen by anyone but him (and he started to wonder if he was losing what was left of his mind). She would sit in what was normally left for the Queen's Throne. She would sit beside him contently.

When Devya concentrated hard enough, she could force herself to be able to touch Darken. The same way she had been able to brush his hair from his face. Her cold hand always sent shivers through him. But it infuriated him. She could touch him when she wished, but he couldn't touch her. He wanted only one thing. Just to touch her once. Just once. Just so he could give her one kiss. He wasn't asking for much, he didn't think. Just one chaste kiss. He didn't know why he felt that way; maybe it was because she was a comfort, a consolation when he needed it. She was like his mother, but he didn't feel quite so uncomfortable when he thought of Devya in the way he did. If Devya were alive, and he could touch her, he would ask her to be his wife. If only because she could console him. And her beauty was immense.

Devya sat faithfully at his side. She had been here every day and every night for nearly a month. She had watched him grow from the fragile minded man into the King he was now. And while she did not approve of his harsh attitude, she knew that it was the only way that he knew how to be. Maybe eventually he'd soften back to what he had been. But that was an awfully big if. She knew that there were other things in his mind, that seemed to be of more importance to him. But as she saw it, there should have been a set order:

Jayden

The Kingdom

The Children

General Affairs of State.

But as she could see it, he had no set order. The person that should have been at the very top of the catalogue was reduced to the very bottom.

Jayden loved him as much as he always had, no matter what he had seen him do. What he had seen from his place hidden behind doors, what he had seen done to men that sought to go against Darken Rahl. He had seen what had been done to men that did not follow orders, and did not listen to the King's commands. They were brutally murdered. And while the boy never saw the act, he saw the end result of Darken's use of Anthropomancy more than once. It made him slightly sick. No, it made him more than sick.

Jayden trembled in fear and shock as he sat in a bed in the healing wing. He clutched at his own abdomen, rocking himself back and forth. Kora, the Healer, could not glean any information from him, no matter how hard she tried.

The dark haired young woman, maybe a few years older than Darken Rahl himself (closer to Egremont's age, maybe thirty years old at the most), sat beside the blonde haired young boy. Her dress was blue, and she wore over it a pure white apron. Her dark hair, an oddity for a D'Haran, was gathered and twisted back into a bun at the back of her head. "Jayden? Are you alright? What's bothering you?", her voice was soft. She was trying her hardest to press him without upsetting him. She needed to know what was wrong, physically or mentally, before she could help him. She seemed to wait an eternity while the boy stared off into oblivion with slightly knit blonde brows.

After some time Jayden finally tore his gaze from eternity and looked towards her brown eyes. His irises flashed back and forth as he looked her over. Looking into her eyes, wanting to know if she was a safe guard for his troubles or if she would tell the Lord Rahl what he was thinking of telling her. "Do you promise not to tell Father Rahl?"

Kora's brows knit together in confusion, but at first she thought the boy might merely be shy on him finding anything out about what was wrong with him. At first she thought he was only holding his belly and rocking as a way of dealing with his nervousness. He was young, but he was nearing the right age. She wondered briefly if adulthood was starting to set in and that that was what was plaguing the boy. She nodded her dark head gently, smiling tenderly. There was nothing anyone could tell the healer that she would not understand, and certainly nothing she would tell another soul if asked to keep the secret. "Of course Jayden. You can tell me anything.", she brushed his long golden hair back from his blue eyes carefully. Tucking it behind his ear before she put her hand on his shoulder and gripped gently. Tenderly. Reassuringly.

Jayden looked into her kind face once more and took a deep breath. "Alright. As long as you promise that Lord Darken Rahl will not learn of it. Promise?"

Kora nearly laughed, "Of course Jayden! What you tell me will not leave my lips. Not for anyone. Not even for the Lord Rahl. Now just tell me, what's bothering you?"

Jayden sighed and took a deep shuttering breath. "I… I… I have seen things that no one should ever have to see. I have seen mutilations done to a human that should not be done.", as he spoke, the colour drained from his cheeks. Forced to recall what he had seen.

Kora looked on in disbelief, her eyes were wide and her face pale. "What… what do you mean? Jayden look at me!", she put her hand upon the boy's jaw and turned his face, forcing him to look into her eyes once again.

"I have seen what Father Rahl does to those that go against him. Those that do no answer him. He slices them open and draws out their innards. He leaves them bloody and dying on the floor. He leaves them to suffer.", his lower lip was starting to tremble, the tears coming to his eyes. He could not believe what he had to tell her, he could not believe what he had seen. He couldn't believe that it had been performed by the man that had so lovingly taken him in when his father and his mother had died mere months apart. He couldn't believe such horrible things had been done by the man he loved as he had loved his father. Or maybe he just did not want to believe. To believe was to acknowledge the darkness of Darken Rahl. He would prefer the knight in shining white armour. He would rather believe that the Father Rahl could do no evil.

Yet he had been proven wrong.

Kora felt as though her stomach were doing back flips in her belly. She pressed her hand against her abdomen gently, trying to settle it. She drank in a few deep breaths of much needed air. The atmosphere all around them in the Healing Wing was full of the scents of a hundred medicinal teas. They were calming, at least to the upset stomach if not the aching heart and the burning mind. But she knew it wasn't just what he had seen that was bothering Jayden. She knew there was more to it than that. She looked into his blue eyes once more, as she gripped his shoulder soothingly. She leaned close, so close her nose nearly brushed against hers. She wanted him to clearly hear what she had to say, because she could say it in no more than a whisper. "Jayden.", she started slowly. "What was done to those men, was done as punishment. It was done so that they may serve the Lord Rahl in his rule, even when they turned against him. Anthropomancy is a powerful, but inaccurate magic. A magic that was taught to Father Rahl by his father before him, Panis Rahl. It is cruel, but it is needed in certain cases. The Father Rahl is a good man, under the toughened exterior. You know him better than most here. And you know, deep in your heart and beyond your fears, that Darken Rahl would **never **hurt you. You are his son in all but blood. He would protect you no matter the cost. Do you understand me?", Kora gazed harshly into Jayden's eyes.

Jayden wanted to look away, but he knew it was no use. He wanted to look away; his eyes were burning. But he couldn't; the boy knew there was truth in the Healer's words. He knew that he shouldn't feel fear and only love. But still it nagged away at him. He couldn't admonish the fact that what had been done to those men, no matter what they had done to go against the Lord Rahl, had been cruel and horrific. And when he laid his eyes upon them (for a few of them had been left to lay in the very public marble hallways of the Peoples Palace), they had not yet died. They cried out to the young D'Haran boy for his help. They reached out with bloody and weak hands, gripping at his ankles. He ran in fear.

Jayden once ran, so blinded by his fear, straight into his Master. Straight into Lord Rahl. And yet when he felt the warm velvet beneath his cheek, the velvet covering the King's lower chest, all the boy could do was throw his arms about the narrow waist and hug himself closer. He could smell the blood on his master's flesh still, yet all it had done was make him clasp him tighter.

Darken had looked down upon him in surprise. Both shocked and slightly disgusted at the boy's blatant show of weakness, and yet he caved to it. He had sighed, and after a moment he had put his arms around Jayden, pressing one hand to the back of the boy's head, the other between his shoulder blades, and pulled him closer against his breast. Letting the boy embrace him as long as he needed. Even if he was unaware of the cause for the boy's mental anguish.

Deep down, Jayden knew that Darken Rahl, no matter what had been done to him, loved him. Even if he nearly ignored him these days. Than again with what he had done to those men, maybe that ignorance was a blessing. At least that way he would never be asked a question that he could not answer.

No, Jayden had been put to the bottom of the list. Everything else was of more importance, and it upset Devya. But it also upset her that now that he had come to terms with who he was, she could not see into Darken Rahl's mind. At night when he had been unbalanced it had been easy enough. But, during the day when wickedness ruled, as he was always now, he was no different than the female Mord'Sith. Completely unreadable, even to the spirit of the Mother Confessor. She could no longer sense anything behind those eyes. Behind the storming portals of his soul. His soul was blocked off from her. She didn't really like it. But she knew that she was partially responsible.

But there was more to Devya's presence here than just to assuage the aching mind of a broken man. There were more pressing matters that she sought an end to. More pressing matters that she had waited three thousand years for a retribution to. And only the ruling Lord Rahl could be the one to conclude. She had already waited three thousand years, she didn't think she could wait for Darken to have a gifted son, and for the child to grow into maturity, before it was set right.

Each day it was a heartache.

Devya, in the last battle against the Sorceress Zorya, had entered the Con Dar in defence of her Seeker, Oran Rahl. But Oran was to her more than any Seeker. Oran was her lover, her husband: the father of her young child. She had entered the Blood Rage when she witnessed him severely beaten by the soldiers and Sisters of the Dark that had worked for Zorya. They had beaten Oran into a bloody pulp. He was rendered unconscious. That had been the final straw. For a Confessor, the Con Dar was a suicide mission, and Devya had known that she would not be called out of it. Not with Oran laying dead.

But that was just it. She had not know that Oran was merely in a coma brought on by his beating. It wouldn't have mattered even if she had known. The person, the reason, for the Confessor's Blood Rage, had to be the one to call the Confessor out of it. Only Oran would have been able to assuage her anger. Only he would have been able to stand against her fury and risk no touch of confession himself. But Oran was deep in a coma and unable to wake. Unable to call Devya back from the brink.

Devya had won; she had fulfilled her final mission. That much was true. Devya was the Mother Confessor, and the daughter of the first Confessor, Magda. In her blood, in her spirit, the magic of the Shirkaiah had been perfected, and multiplied by the blood of her War Wizard father. She had been a War Confessor, with power unimaginable. Her power was instant, she needed only mere seconds to recover after each confession. But this was more than just blood magic through her parents. This had been taught to her over the years by her Wizard in Aydindril where her throne was. This had been perfected by her Seeker, Oran Rahl, when she had been called forth to meet him. He was already the King of D'Hara, and therefore a Wizard himself. In her rage, the Con Dar served Devya beautiful she had confessed the guards. She had confessed an Army. And when her control started to loosen as he strength started to wane, she had drawn the life out of the plants and animals all around her. She had taken rejuvenation from the living greenery of the earth. But finally there was nothing left to draw her power from, and Devya collapsed. Still caught in the Blood Rage, she fought to control the last of her living confessed guards. Her own army slaughtered around her, save for the few that sought to protect their King and Queen. The last guard of Zorya, in his weakened and dying state, had made his way to his Queen. To Zorya, and had dealt a fatal blow. It was not a quick death, but it would kill the Witch. It did kill the Witch in the days and weeks to come. It was a painful and slow death.

Devya fell to the bloodstained earth near her Seeker. The Con Dar had killed her. Her body lay lifeless as the storming wind blew her dark hair all about her. Like a dark banner. From her heart it started, the great ball of white light. It grew and it rose, before it erupted. Thunder without sound, lightning without fire. It sent a powerful shockwave over the land. So powerful that it covered the New World, and the Old World. Even beyond the boundaries protecting the New World from the Old. The blast of magic released all those that had ever been confessed by the woman, but it did more than that.

It was said, that when Devya breathed her last breath, that the light of the stars diminished. That the moon stopped smiling, and the sun pulled away from the earth. It was said that no Confessor that came after her would ever be given magic so powerful, so that none would ever forget the second Mother Confessor; the first Confessor to give her life for the first Seeker. People across the territories wept for weeks. The Mother Confessor was dead. The Seeker, though triumphant, had come to his end.

But it was not so. Oran lived. He was carried with Devya's body from the battlefield by his loyal soldiers. The body of the Mother Confessor was sent to Aydindril, her home. Her Kingdom, in order to be buried in a tomb fit for the Queen that she was. Where she would ever be honoured by the Confessors that followed her. It would be a long journey, but the embalmers of D'Hara had done the best the possibly could to ensure the woman remained perfect until she reached her final resting place. When Devya's body was on it's way to the confine of the Wizards and the Confessors, Oran awoke. Though beaten and bruised, with many internal injuries, he was alive. Upon the news of his beloved death he turned to his brother, Balthazar, who was only sixteen years old at the time. Oran gave the orders that should anything befall himself, that Balthazar was to raise his daughter, Rayne, and when she was old enough, to send her to Aydindril to learn the way of her mother. To become another Confessor. Balthazar would take the throne of D'Hara in the chance that any befell his elder brother. Burdened with that knowledge, he tearfully agreed, but prayed for his brother's recovery.

Oran, though still recovering, was determined to wish his wife goodbye, to bless her with the age old blessing, _May the Spirits protect you, and light your way to the halls of eternal peace_. He knew that her step-father, their Wizard in their quest, would have already wished her such a blessing, but Oran _needed _to tell it to her as well. He needed to say goodbye, even though it was far too early in his mind. Devya was only twenty seven years old, and he was only twenty nine. Their daughter was just over a year old.

So Oran, with his contingency, set out for Aydindril. But Oran never made it that far, he never made it even half way. The beating he had endured in battle, was too great with old injuries that he had already bore. He would have lived, but the added heartache over losing Devya had broken what was left of his heart. He had wanted to live for Rayne, but he knew in Balthazar's hands she would be safe and well loved. And the Kingdom would move on without him.

The first Seeker of Truth died surrounded by loyal followers, but without his Confessor. He died, on all accounts, alone. The Confessor was all that had mattered; family and love was all that mattered after the destruction of Zorya.

When Oran's light passed out of his body, they were too far from Aydindril to continue on. They had had no choice. They bathed his body and wrapped him in linen. They carried the body of the King back to D'Hara. In the Crypts of the Kings, he was laid to rest with an elaborate stone effigy of himself over his tomb. To protect him for all eternity, and give the man beneath the stone a face for all those to see and worship. He was buried with Devya's necklace of goldstone beads clasped in his hand. With him, the sword forged for him, the Sword of Truth, was laid to rest. Until the next Seeker, one thousand years later, was called upon. When his crypt was opened and the blade retrieved by the Wizard of the First Order. After that, Oran was forgotten in all memory but for the stories told of the First Seeker. His grave forgotten, left to gather dust and grow pitted. Oran Rahl was forgotten.

In Aydindril, over two hundred leagues away, Devya was laid to rest in her own crypt. Her body entombed in a marble sarcophagus, with an elaborate effigy of the woman inside. She was meant to be looked upon, and worshiped for eras to come. Every year, on the anniversary of her death, the Order of Confessors, lit candles for every year of her life and death. For three thousand years. But unlike Oran she was buried with no lasting trace of her lover. She was simply laid to rest as the Mother Confessor. The Confessor to the First Seeker. But unlike Oran, she was not forgotten. Her memory did not slip from mine but in the hearts of legends. Devya was worshipped by the Confessors as a goddess. When the Seeker was called upon, the Confessor chosen to aid him, turned to the War Confessor. She would sit he vigil for two days and nights, praying for help from the woman that came three thousand years before. Praying for the strength to make the right decisions. Praying for the strength to last the mission. To make it through the battle. For the strength to not fall in love with the Seeker through all the hardship.

Devya might have been remembered in more than just legend, but the most important part of her story was forgotten. Over time, with Oran's tomb forgotten and untouched in two thousand years, elements were excluded from the story. It was not on purpose, it was a misinterpretation of the tale. Without the goldstone necklace clasped in Oran's mummified hand to prove the contrary, people forgot.

The story believed by the people, of all the territories, and by the Confessors and their Wizards, was merely that Devya and Oran had been Seeker and Confessor. Two warriors bound together for truth and justice. Nothing more, nothing less. It was forgotten that they were husband and wife, very much devoted to the other, even without the Confessor's touch. No one remembered Rayne, though she had become Mother Confessor in her time. No one remembered the line of Kings she had been born from.

But had that story only been told in full, it would have ended the suffering and heartache of three eras of Confessors pining for their Seekers. Seekers desperately in love with their Confessors, and unable to be together. Had the story only been told as it should have been, the would have understood that the bound between Confessor and Seeker was stronger than any magic, and that no magic could possibly hurt them.

Instead, Devya was worshipped as a deity, while her beloved lay forgotten in the darkness of his tomb.

They were both so alone.

And that was the reason Devya was here. She needed to tell Darken Rahl this truth. She knew she would be asking him so much, she knew that it would be nearly impossible, but she had to ask it. When Devya had been laid to rest, she waited in the Underworld for her beloved Seeker, but Oran never came. She waited for three thousand years, yet she had never lain eyes upon his spirit again. Their tombs were separated. The Seeker and his Confessor were meant to lay together forever. Side by side, else the magic that bound them, would separate them. They had been separated for so long. So long had she gone without seeing her beloved Oran, that the moment she laid her eyes upon Darken Rahl her heart leapt.

Darken was Oran's reincarnation, in all but spirit. His body had been recreated and sent back with another soul. A soul that needed her help. She wanted nothing more than to be with her Oran, her heart ached at even the thought of seeing his face once more. She had felt this way for three thousand years. And she saw it once more, but it was the face of a living man. She was torn. Oran, her beloved, was somewhere in the Underworld, waiting for her, but here he was too. In the guise of a young man born of the line stemming from Balthazar Rahl.

Devya turned her blank face to her left, gazing upon Darken's form as he sat in his throne. He needed to be told. The ancient wrong had to be righted. The balance had to be returned. Maybe if Oran's spirit was settled and tempered, than Darken himself would feel more at peace. If their bodies were the same, than maybe they were connected more than Devya realized. But as she moved to speak to him, he stood. She watched him in shock, though there was no face to display it. She couldn't fathom what had crossed his mind, and it was better if she did not.

Darken Rahl had had enough of her presence beside him. Well, that was not true. He had grown tired of being able to see her and yet be unable to touch her. He was tired of it. He wanted to know her beyond the shadowy, ghostly, figure that he had come to know. He wanted to hold her in his arms, even if the thought to others would be a frightening one. He wanted to know who she was, without listening to the riddles she spouted off. He already knew she was the Confessor to the First Seeker. He already knew the story.

The Witch Zorya, from her place in the Old World, sought to over take all. But when she reached D'Hara and its young King, Oran, she was met with a brick wall Oran refused to surrender to her, and because of this, the people of D'Hara rose against her. The Wizard, Merrit, saw this. In Oran he saw all of what was good in the world, and knew that if there was a chance to defeat Zorya, that it lay with him.

Merrit had held Counsel with Oran, and proposed to him an idea; to name him as the Seeker of Truth, an honour never bestowed before. To make Oran the highest moral authority after the Mother Confessor, Merrit's own step-daughter, Devya. Oran, though concerned, agrees. For the safety of the people. Merrit called Devya from her throne in Aydindril to bear witness to the forging of the Sword of Truth, and to the naming. Oran, in his own cleverness, added a drop of his Rahl blood to the steel that the blade was forged from. With the magic contained within, the Sword would be able to make the Seeker a strong warrior (Oran did not need this, but he knew there would always be a Seeker needed in the years to come). The Sword of Truth, when finished, was given to Oran in the naming ceremony, presided over by the Mother Confessor, Devya. Merrit had meant for the woman to acknowledge the Seeker, and give him her blessings, but she knew the truth, as she always did. Without help, without Justice, the Seeker alone had no chance. With herself at his side, people would follow him. So she offered her life to him. A vow to protect the Seeker with her life. As ever Confessor following her vowed to their Seeker.

Darken knew the story, but he wanted to know the woman. In his mind there was only one choice left; raise her spirit from the depths of the Underworld, completely, and resurrect her. Bring her into the world, create for her a body like her own. Then he would have Amberlee give her the Breath of Life, and she would be his. Forever if he wished it.

As he marched from the throne room, he pushed Jayden aside. The boy was still worried, and pale, but he moved instantly. Pushing himself as flat to the wall as he could. He did not want to upset his Master in the slightest way. Darken didn't even notice as he stalked into his study; which belonged to his father before him. He tore through the books, before he pulled them all from the shelves. Throwing each leather bound tome until he found what he was looking for. His father's dark grimoires. The records of dark, subtractive magic. Darken Rahl was clever, not only did he realize that such a spell as he was looking for would only be in the grimoires, but he also understood that even when he found it, he had to be given the power of Subtractive magic by the Keeper first.

When he found the spell, he read it three times. He needed a spirit guide. A pure spirit to bring him into the Underworld so that the realm of Death would not kill him. And yet he had to read it again. Once upon a time the mere thought of what the spell called for would have been enough to turn him away from any thought that he had had, but now? Now it was nothing. He just needed a pure spirit.

Rahl smiled wickedly to himself as he closed the black leather book.

OoO.

"Jayden? You know you are safe with me, don't you?", Rahl's voice was soft and concerned. The boy looked awfully pale every time he entered the room. He hoped he had not upset the boy in anyway. He didn't like the thought of being the cause of the boy's anguish. He sat himself down beside him gently. Jayden shied away slightly, but Darken seemed to ignore it. He put his left hand upon the boy's left shoulder and pulled him in close against his left side carefully. Still cautious of the scars beneath his clothing. "Jayden? What's wrong? You know you can tell me anything. I promise you."

Jayden looked up at him slowly, their blue eyes meeting. But in the eyes that had been so icy before, the boy saw kindness. It had taken him off guard, but he supposed Kora had be right. He was Father Rahl's son in all but blood. Darken Rahl would never hurt him. "You promise?"

Rahl smiled softly, "Cross my heart and hope to die.", he drew an X over his left breast with his right index finger.

Jayden thought for a long moment. Wondering if this was the right thing to do. Wondering if there was something else that he could say. But he knew better. He knew his adoptive parent could read him like a book. He had always been able to. If he were to lie, the consequences would indefinitely be worse than if he were to just tell the truth. He drew a deep breath, and exhaled loudly before he found his voice. Darken was still gazing intently down upon him. "Father Rahl?"

"Yes Jayden?"

"I… Please don't be mad at me."

"Why on earth would I be mad at you?", Darken looked confused. His brows knit together as he looked down at the boy sitting on grass growing of the marble floors of the Garden of Life. "What is it Jayden?"

"I… I've seen what you do to people that do not listen to you. I have seen men with their insides on the outsides.", his voice was trembling and Jayden thought for sure that he would weep. It wasn't sorrow, or guilt, it was sheer horror.

Rahl's eyes softened a little, "Oh Jayden… You're not afraid I would do that to you, are you?"

Jayden froze. He didn't want to answer that. Deep down he knew it would never happen, yet he still held the fear in his waking mind. But the lack of an answer, was answer enough for Darken Rahl.

"Oh Jayden!", he sighed a little and turned his torso. He wrapped his arms fully around the nearly eleven year old, hugging him tightly to his breast. "Jayden! That will never happen to you, no matter what you do. I promise you that. I love you more than anything in this world. You are everything to me, as I would hope I am everything to you.", his voice was soft, lulling the boy in towards him.

Jayden was shocked. He looked up, "Of course I would do anything for you Father Rahl! I just don't want you upset with me! I love you like I loved my father! You have been so good and so kind to me… I … I fear that you would want payback, because I can never repay you."

"Jayden, I would never ask you to pay me back. Knowing you love me like a parent is enough.", Darken brushed the boy's hair back gently. He was very good at being manipulative. The very tone of his voice drew the boy in, made the boy feel guilty for only loving him as he said was enough.

"But, but it can't be enough Father Rahl! I know I would do _anything _for you."

Darken paused a moment, looking into Jayden's blue eyes. "Would you die for me? Not that I would **ever **ask that of you."

Jayden looked back into the steel blue eyes, thinking it over. In his mind, that seemed the only natural option of pay back. "Yes Father Rahl, I would even die for you."

Darken Rahl smiled sadly and put his hands upon the boy's jaw. He leaned close and kissed his blonde brow, holding him close for a moment. But as Jayden relaxed in the knowledge that his adoptive father loved him, he didn't know what he had just promised himself to. It came quick. Darken, with his hands still upon the young boy's jaw, snapped his neck. Jayden swiftly fell limp, and Darken lowered him down onto the floor. He laid him down gently onto the emerald grass as the sun sank beyond the horizon through the tall cathedral windows.

Darken stripped the boy's body naked, and bathed him with sweet wine before he drew his dagger. With a silver bowl beside him, he cut from the boy three organs: his brain, his heart, and his testicles. He placed each into the silver bowl before he stood, and filled the bowl with a little of the wine. Setting it on a bracket over a fire. He could only gaze down at the boy while he waited for the organs to boil and cook. His eyes were cold. He had been a good actor. He had let the boy to believe he cared for him still. "Sorry Jayden, but this was required. I'll name my first born gifted son after you, how would that be? Good? Alright. That's settled than.", he glanced once more to the silver bowl, and saw what he needed to see. The flesh had boiled and was now over cooked. He pulled the bowl carefully from the flames to let it cool. Once the metal had chilled, he picked up the stone pestle, and proceeded to grind the cooked flesh until it was a fine paste. Once it was ground he turned away from it for a moment. Taking the time to unclasps his robes, and letting them drop to the grassy floor of the Garden of Life. The site where he was at his most powerful. In the exact center of the Peoples Palace. He knelt once more, and covered himself into the dark blood of the boy, before he picked up the bowl and put his hand into the paste. He covered his fingers with it. He hated meat, and ate only vegetables, but the spell had called for this. He gazed at the concoction on his fingertips for a moment, before he licked it off. Devouring the bowlful before he threw it to the side. He moved, and knelt in the white sorcerer's sand. Chanting in High D'Haran as he traced out magical runes in the sand.

The sand parted, and up from the deep black pit created, rose a beast. Indescribable it was, with four clawed paws, and great curling horns. It was glowing, and it braced itself with his paws far apart; it bowed its head to Darken Rahl.

Father Rahl nodded his head, half smiling. "Hello again Jayden.", he ran his hand down the beast's heavy neck and patted it a moment as he looked the Underworld Creature over. After a moment he took hold of a heavy horn and swung his leg over the beast; mounting it. He held tight to the fine mane of the creature, as it turned once more back to the black pit in the sand. It leapt and dove back into the Underworld, with the young King of D'Hara upon its back.


	16. Chapter Fifteen: Shadow Realm

**Disclaimer: **See previous Chapters.

_**Chapter Fifteen: **_**Shadow Realm**

Emerald green flames licked at the darkness. The scent of sulphur was strong and nauseating to the senses. In the blackness of the surrounding miles, the shrieks of souls condemned to eternal suffering were loud; they echoed off the brimstone cliffs and rang out through the eternal damnation.

Darken could feel the sweat starting to bead over his flesh; the heat of the Underworld was more than he could have ever imagined. Than again, he asked the spirit of Jayden, called to him as the Shinga, to bring him to the Keeper himself, and not just into the Underworld. He could feel the beads of sweat welling up before they rolled down his collarbone and over his broad chest and down his torso. The heat was utterly unbearable. At least to a fully living body.

Rahl stood now, where very few living beings had stood. The flames licked around him, but did not touch him. They were kept at bay by the magic and the protection of the Shinga who remained at his side. The beast lowered its massive head and nuzzled at his bare breast, wanting attention. Still bound to him through the love that Jayden had held for him in life. If Darken Rahl still had a heart left beneath that breast, it was clouded and it was black. He did not feel the return of the child's love. Not any more. He held only the attitude that Jayden should have sacrificed himself for his Master. It was his duty.

But Darken Rahl had forgotten his own duty. The vow he had sworn on his pure heart to Avalyn Wright. He had broken the vow and slaughtered the boy. Brought the harm to him that he swore to protect him against for as long as the boy was in his care. It was shameful. It was more than dishonourable. He had broken the word given on the line of Kings before him. He had dishonoured a three and a half thousand year dynasty. He had made all of the Rahl Bloodline out to be murderous liars. Than again, Panis Rahl before him had not helped him in that way.

But, what did Darken Rahl care? What was one boy when there were bigger details at stake? What would one boy be in the grand scheme of things? What was one boy in all of History? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. One child would neither make or break the world, no matter whose son he was. At least not in the steely eyes of Darken Rahl himself. He seemed to forget that he was once a child, a child that could have been easily slaughtered the day his father died. It could have easily been him instead; the Great Wizard could only calculate where Panis Rahl was supposedly standing on the other side of the Boundary. He had no way of knowing that he had been two feet off; enough to catch Panis Rahl, but also catch the young boy. The Great Wizard could have easily struck only Panis Rahl. On the same token, he could have easily only struck Darken Rahl. No, one child was capable of being the changing of the tide. But, who was Jayden? He was not the son of a King - at least not by blood. And the King that had been his father, was the very one to butcher him. In ever sense of the word. So truly, who was Jayden to make a difference in the world?

The Shinga was inescapable. It would not leave the Master's side. The beast was overbearing and aggravating in the eyes of the Lord Rahl. The massive muzzle came up and nuzzled against his sun kissed breast, despite the sweat that poured down his flesh. Darken would have thought that the stench of sweat would have pressed against the animal's higher sense of the smell; that the pong would have driven it back. Yet the beast was drawn all the closer. A deep rumbling, almost like a purr, poured forth from deep within its massive breast. The Shinga was insufferable. At least towards the man that had called it out of it's resting place in the Underworld.

Darken could barely contain his annoyance at the beast. The muzzle was rubbing up against his flesh and driving him off the edge of sanity. It was breaking his concentration. The beast, which was supposed to be terrifying (and perhaps it would have been to Darken Rahl under different circumstances), was showing nothing but weakness and domestication. Than again, it may have been because it was no true Shinga, but the spirit of his _son _called back to him in the Land of the Living to bring him here. Here into the epitome of Hell. Into the one place in all of Creation that People both dreaded and feared, as well as welcomed and strove to reach. It all depended on their deeds in life; in the state of their impending afterlife. If they had served the Creator, or the Keeper. In essence, Good or Evil.

There was only type of person located in these dark reaches of the land everlasting. In the Shadow Realm. These were the worst of the Sinners; those that were to face their eternity forever with the Keeper himself. In the Underworld there were four versions of afterlife; three of them for the wicked.

The good, the holy, and those that strove for the light of the Creator were given eternal rest and bliss with their loved ones. Eternal peace. The wicked were divided into subgroups. Those without choice were given a short period of punishment in purgatory before returning to their loved ones. It was barely a blip on the timeline of perpetuity. The second group, those that did wicked deeds, minor though they were, and had chosen that life themselves (and not for a good cause), were giving a longer sentence. A longer punishment, but would, also, eventually move into the halls of eternal peace to be with those that had loved them in life. The third and final group of the wicked, and the fourth group of all, where those that were utterly evil in life. Those that massacred the people and murdered, raped, pillaged, plundered and sinned all for their own pleasure. Their own greed. These people were punished with their eternity spent at the side of the Master of All in the Shadow Realm. The Keeper. Here the master of Death would discipline, and condemn, their spirits for all of infinity. They would forever roast in the fires of the deepest pits of the Underworld.

And it was in the deepest pits, in the furthest ring, that Darken Rahl now stood with the Shinga at his side. The beast waited to be able to return him to the land above once more, before Jayden would be allowed to join his beloved father, Corey, and his mother, Avalyn. To join his parents who were finally reunited in death.

If Darken Rahl did not know better, he would have started to show his impatience. He, briefly, wondered to himself if the Keeper was existent or merely one more myth perpetuated by the First Generation; like the Shadrin had once been believed to be. He would have still believed that it was myth, had his soldiers not captured one a year before Jayden had arrived. While it was to this day kept alive in the prison somewhere beyond where he could imagine, the beast was a wild thing. In the D'Haran Prison it was barely surviving. It was barely able to carry on, let alone thrive. Meat, butchered, was thrown to it now and then, as well as the few random slaves that did not follow orders (this had been performed by Ansleigh and not by the orders of Darken Rahl himself) to sustain the monster, but beyond that it was a caged animal. Apparently one of the offspring of the ancient beast living in the Caves at the mouth of Fire Spring in the Midlands, had wandered to far from home. To Darken Rahl, the decent King, it had been a shame. But, he had allowed for its captivity to keep his people safe. Yet he kept it alive, finding it to be a shame and a desecration of the Creator's creature if it was executed. At the time he had not realized that it was far more cruel to keep the beast alive in captivity. Now, after his own imprisonment, he knew the pain and humiliation of being kept as an animal behind a locked cage. And for it, he was more cruel. The plight of the beast was nothing to him, yet he knew how to make it feel all the more pain. All the more rage. And Darken Rahl did not care.

If Darken Rahl did not know better, he would have started to show his impatience. He, briefly, wondered to himself if the Keeper was a real being. As he waited amongst the shadow realm with the licking flames (Darken still despised fire of any sort, but at the moment was holding himself together alright), he pushed the head of the Shinga back from his broad chest and folded his arms, shifting his weight and throwing his hips slightly off kilter. The horned beast seemed not to notice, and instead took to rubbing its head, in a cat-like manner, against his left shoulder. The D'Haran King had to roll his eyes slightly. Clearly this beast was nothing like the tales of the Underworld, the horror stories, told of. At least not _this _Shinga. His dark hair fluttered about in the rising heat as green sparks from the flames danced around his face, and illuminated his harsh features. The yellow-green flames lit up his body in the darkness of the pit.

He kept his arms folded, but shifted his weight to the other foot, putting his hips to the other side and changing the angle. He felt as thought he were waiting only to be disappointed. That he spilled an innocent boy's lifeblood only to be disappointed. But he knew that the death of Jayden, even if the reason for it did not come to pass, would not have been for nothing. He knew and accepted rather coldly the fact that had he not butchered the young boy that he would never have known the answer to these questions. Yet as the thoughts crossed his mind, and the wait seemed an eternity in and of itself, the great cataclysm that he had been lead to believe would not happen, finally took place.

Rahl was very suddenly aware he stood upon a cliff; formerly lead to believe that he was on level ground (the thought of which he honestly preferred) as the jet of green flame erupted up from the further recesses of the pits beneath him. The heat and stench of fire and brimstone was unbearable. The heat was enough to well up blisters on any exposed flesh. Darken raised his arms and covered his face for protection as the fountain of flame burst forth. He felt the scorches, though not _quite _enough to inflict any true damaged to his flesh, against his naked form and bite at his forearms covering his face.

"Darken Rahl!", the slightly nasal voice boomed forth, seemingly from within the rising blaze. The voice was intimidating, and held a slight accent. Darken couldn't entirely put his finger on it, but it nearly sounded D'Haran. Than again, perhaps it was a generic accent set aside for only the higher beings. The Creator and her former lover, the Keeper, and perhaps their children; the First Generation. The flames slowly died back, briefly licking over the edge of the cliffs (Darken was thankful he was standing about ten feet back from the edge, perhaps fifteen. In the dark it was hard to judge distance.)

Darken was still shielding himself from the flame and the brilliant and blinding light of it. He peered through the gap between his forearms with narrowed eyes. Seeking to answer to his name, while shielding sensitive eyes. "Keeper?", his voice, though soft and respectful, was still arrogant. The man would never learn so it seemed.

"Yes, Lord Rahl.", the voice was considerably quieter. Though it still echoed with the sheer acoustics of the rock formations jutting out about them, it was coming as though from a human being.

Darken could not see enough from behind his braced arms, and slowly lowered them. He realized that the blaze had been quenched; the tower of flame had been silenced. He blinked a few times, to clear his eyes of the lingering colour forms left by the brilliance of the radiating light. But once his eyes cleared, he had to blink once again. Caught utterly off guard by what he saw before him.

Ahead of Darken Rahl, and just a foot in from the edge of the cliff, stood a man dressed entirely in white. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his shoulders drawn back in an imperial manner. But it wasn't the _man's _garb that caught the young King off guard, it was his stature. He was less of height than Rahl himself. That is to say that he was short. He was not, by any means, a tall man. At least five, possibly six, inches lesser in height, the man did not top five feet and five inches tall. Everything about the man was far more compacted than that Darken Rahl himself; his height was capped at a lesser stage, his shoulders were narrower. While muscular, he was not as well built as the dark haired D'Haran. But the man had a very clear and arrogant _holy than thou _tone to his very mannerisms. Even while he stood perfectly stationary waiting for his guest to get his eyeful before he carried on with his questioning.

Darken Rahl's brow had knit slightly as he looked the man in white over. _This _was the Keeper? He wasn't a thing like Darken Rahl had always been lead to believe, or to fear. In fact he wasn't so sure that this man was even the height of a Calthrop's scat. Than again, he himself was not that much taller. But Darken Rahl was not supposed to be an all-knowing, feared-by-all, being that had lent a hand in the creation of the world. That thought shocked him slightly.

The Keeper's blue eyes narrowed slightly; he could tell what Darken was thinking as he looked him over. He was, after all, all-knowing. However, being the higher of the two of them, he decided to let it rest. For now at least. "Why have you come here? You are not dead, as I can see by the presence of the Shinga at your side. A Shinga that seems bounded with you. Tell me, what would a King such as yourself possibly require from me?", his lips held a slight smirk as he looked back towards Father Rahl. He knew the reasons for the venturing down into the Underworld, but he enjoyed putting his prey on the spot. He enjoyed making them sweat and worry.

Darken was stronger than most men that the Keeper had come across. After his breaking he had turned himself to stone. Nothing escaped him, no fears or worries. While they existed, they did not make it passed his frozen heart, and should they, they spilled out in the form of anger. But just as he could be an angry and wicked bastard, he could also be a statue. Completely impervious to intimidation. Darken Rahl steeled himself. "I am here to offer you a bargain; you can either take it, or you can leave it."

The Keeper raised one arrogant brow, looking Darken over harshly. Reading passed his eyes, yet like Devya before him had witnessed, Darken Rahl was a stone surface. He was unreadable, even to a former Mother Confessor. Even to the Keeper. At least at the moment as the King focused his mind only onto his wishes. "And what, might I ask, could you give me? There is nothing that I would ever want from you."

Darken turned his eyes, scouring the landscape of screaming and writhing souls. He knew that it would have come to this one day sooner or later, and so he welcomed it. The thought brought him no worry, and so there was no fear in his blue eyes as he turned them back to the man in white (who still stood with his hands folded behind his back). "My spirit and my servitude. For all of eternity."

The Keeper raised his brow a little, looking the man over, searching him up and down for a sign of his honesty. And honesty was all he saw, even if he couldn't read into the man's mind. "And why," he took a few steps closer in order to look into Darken's eyes, "would I want you as my servant?"

Darken raised his jaw, looking down his arrogant nose at the Keeper of the Underworld. Diplomacy might have been in his blood, but it was not very well written into the way he performed measures of politics. "Because, Keeper, I am the Master of D'Hara. I am the King. I have thousands at my command who would follow me into oblivion, no matter what I do. If you take me as your Emissary, you will have power in the Land of the Living."

The man in the white suit pursed his lips together, just a little, as he stared through Darken and into the blackness beyond him. Power in the realm of the Creator was something that he had desired since she locked him away in this wretched place. When the Stone of Tears had been used against him, and love ceased to have meaning to him. This man was willing to offer him such power. But, at what cost? He turned his eyes up slightly, still biting slightly at his lower lip, back to the steely blue eyes of the man before him. "Fair enough. But if I take you up on your offer, what is it that you are asking for in return?"

Darken had two options, either of which would have equalled what he wanted. One more than the other. He quickly ran through them in his mind, flipping back and forth like the pages of a tome. He took his dramatic pause before he spoke, "I want the soul of Devya Searus. Daughter of Magda the first Confessor."

The Keeper had to smirk, just a little. "And just why would you want that? She is nothing, and has never been anything, to you."

Darken squared his jaw. In truth, he wasn't really sure why he wanted to resurrect the soul of the Mother Confessor, but yet it meant something to him. She meant _something _to him, even if he was not sure of what _it _was.

"Don't tell me you've fallen in love with a dusty old corpse.", the Keeper half laughed.

Darken's eyes flashed dangerously. "Don't you even dare to call her that. And just what would you know of love? You abandoned it the day you murdered your children with the Creator.", he could be just as acerbic of tongue when he desired to be.

The man narrowed his eyes and squared his jaw. "So be it. I ask again, why would you want her?"

"What place do you have to ask me what my reasons are for wanting her spirit? You have not accepted my offer, and therefore I am not yet your servant."

The Keeper started to laugh. Actually laugh. It caught the D'Haran King off guard, but he pushed his shock away behind stone walls in his heart. "You will make a perfect servant; compliant but with a vicious mind and tongue of his own. You will serve me well. I will give you what you want. But, there is something you must know first.", once again the Keeper advanced, until he was nearly in Darken's face.

"And what would that be?", Darken folded his arms and looked back just as sharply. He raised one brow as he tilted his head to one side. His dark tresses fluttered again in the rising heat of the Shadow Realm.

The Keeper still wore a slight _holier than thou _smirk upon his face, "You can raise your _dear _Devya by bringing her soul out of the Underworld, **but** bringing the spirit from the land of death and into the land of life with my permission will bind her soul into the body she once held. She will awake, as an ancient corpse in her tomb. Is that what you want?"

Darken's eyes widened a little. That thought had truthfully not crossed his mind. Not at all. He had naively thought that if he were to bring her spirit out of the Underworld and to him as she often came, that he could keep her and he might be able to give her a new body. His eyes flashed back and forth as they were cast slightly down. He was trying find an alternative in his mind, beyond the obvious.

He smirked seeing the look in the young King's eyes. "There is one other option for you, if that is what you are longing to do, to raise her from her death."

Rahl's eyes flashed once more towards the blue eyes of the Keeper, looking down at him slightly. He waited silently for the answer, not wanting to push his luck as he had been. He had been caught with his reasons, and they were reasons that even he was not fully sure of.

"There is a spell deep within one of your father's grimiores. It can raise a soul and create from that form a new body of flesh and blood exactly as they were in their prime. In the case of Devya it would be in exactly the condition she was in before her death; the shape that her soul retains. The vision of her to which you are familiar."

"I would need Subtractive Magic.", Darken gazed darkly into the man's eyes from the corners of his own as he thought the suggestion over.

"Yes, and such magic would be a gift to you, **if **you agree to give me your spirit, you soul, as you offered, for an eternity of servitude. It will give you power unimaginable. You would never die by the hand of Lady Time. Natural death would never come to you."

Darken Rahl lifted one hand to his face, and rubbed his pouted lower lip with the pad of his middle finger for a moment as he thought. He turned his gaze once more into that of the Keeper. "I could still be killed."

"Of course you could Darken, but all living things must meet their end one way or another. At least you would live, untouched, with the one you _love _for a time. Devya would be yours as you desire. And you would be forever beautiful in youth. As long as you live you would not wither with the ravages of time. You will live outside of it whilst enshrouded by it. Eternity, if you play your cards right, could be yours."

Darken cast his eyes to the dark brimstone beneath his feet once more. His hand moved again, rubbing his lip over again as he debated with himself. His mother would scream and roll in her grave if she knew what her baby boy was doing, what he was agreeing to. But Snædis had no grave; she was burned to cinders and left there to be carried away by the wind. And therefore, the thought of her objections, were banished from his mind. After a moment he raised his eyes and moved his hand, holding it out to the Keeper. "Than we have a deal."

The Keeper smirked once more, he took Rahl's hand firmly in his own and squeezed it as he shook it slightly. "That's all I need to know."

The pain was unimaginable. It was worse than the Mord'Sith's constant use of the agiel on his body, it was worse than the Wizard's Fire upon his person. It was worse than anything he had ever felt, multiplied by one thousand. The pain covered every inch of him, both internally and on his exterior. It radiated from where his flesh made contact with that of the Keeper of the Underworld. Darken threw his head back in pain, gasping and fighting to breathe as the soul inside of him ignited. It turned to pure white light, and shone out through his eyes, nostrils, and mouth. It was engulfed in flame. Pure, agonizing, flame. When the light died out, Darken had closed his eyes in pain, and panting still with his mouth slightly agape, he lowered his jaw. Panting as he drew in deep breathes.

The spirit, the soul, was burned right out of him. In its place, he felt the surge of magic. Dark magic.

When he opened his eyes, the Keeper was smiling wickedly. "We have an everlasting contract, unbreakable."

Darken knew that the very thought should have terrified him, yet the rush of the added potency to his han only excited him. The emptiness behind it was not yet noticed. A dark lust to do evil deeds was the result of the power. It was not a side effect, merely a twisted heart calling out with rage.

The Shinga nuzzled his chest once more, beckoning him to mount it's back once more. It was time to return to the land above. To the Land of the Living.

OoO.

From the Garden of Life, returned to Land of the Living by the Shinga created from the spirit of the sacrificed child, Darken Rahl marched. Self assured more than ever, each step had a purpose. The cranberry velvet underskirts of his robes trailed out behind him, while the grenadine and silk overskirts recoiled off of his thighs as he strode down the hall. He came once more to his father's ancient study, and opened the doors. The stench from inside was horrid. Enough to turn another's stomach. When he pushed the Onyx doors opened and moved inside, he quickly discovered why.

The body of Ansleigh was still strapped in place, and was there rotting. Darken Rahl turned up his nose in a disgusted snarl. Why had this been left here the way it was? Never the less he did not desire to touch it; the corpse, though nearing a month old, was too fresh. Too full of decomposing action. There was one other way to deal with it. He lifted is hand and called forth the Wizard's Fire that was always boiling in his blood; always held at bay. He released it, and directed it towards the putrid corpse. The smell was worse as the flesh started to turn black and curl; it spread through the exposed (nearly disintegrated) entrails like a spark through the wick, but with the blast of magic fire the burning took mere seconds as opposed to long moments. When he released the flames and removed his hand, there was little left but a mound of ash in the generalized shape of man.

When the corpse was disposed of, Darken turned to the blackened (with dust) shelves of the study. They were lined with grimoires. The one from his own collection had not contained the spell that the Keeper had informed him of (which was the reason he had simply asked for her soul- he was under the impression that with that in his possession, with the other book he could bring her to natural life). He pulled tome after tome after tome from the dark shelves, and thrust them down upon the sacrificial table- sending the ash into the air. Each book he poured through, until he finally found the high D'Haran spell.

_To raise the Dead from their peace eternal_

_The caster must perform the spell with purest love in heart_

_Only he who is in the Light of the Creator, or in the Darkness of the Keeper_

_Can escape the power of Death Infernal._

Darken couldn't help but roll his eyes. The book was ancient, and its words, though he well understood them, were most likely out of date. He read on though, forcing himself to keep going; visualizing Devya's beauty to keep himself interested.

_For power such as this,_

_The Magician requires four factors:_

_Blood drawn from living flesh, promised in care_

_The fang from a Shadrin rare_

_Relic of soul from the beloved's grave or apart _

_And love bourn in thine beating heart._

The poetry of the spell made him feel nauseous. How on earth was the flowery tongue any more to the point that a simple list? But he supposed it did not matter, not as long as he knew the four items he needed. Blood, a Shadrin's fang, and a relic. The part of love he already had.

Darken slammed the book closed and stood for a moment, considering the options. Blood was easy. His golden sheathed and handled dagger would do the task of slicing his flesh to spill the blood. The Shadrin fang was more difficult, but with the capture of one such monster, it was not impossible. But a relic from the grave of Devya was nearly as such. Devya was buried two hundred leagues away, in Aydindril. D'Hara and Aydindril had been allies as long as he could remember, but the Boundary separated them. Even if he could pass through the Boundary, he knew that should he make it to Aydindril, he would never be able to open the grave of the Mother Confessor. Devya, he knew enough through history, was worshipped as a Queen - a Goddess. Her burial chamber was heavily guarded and considered Sacred. Only on the anniversary of her death was her crypt opened to anyone but the reigning Mother Confessor. And Darken Rahl knew that Serena would not be willing to open it on any other day. And even _if _he should be allowed in, to open her sarcophagus was a terrible crime. A crime that was, in all respects, punishable by death. Devya, though worshipped, prayed to, and loved by the Order that followed her, was meant to lie in her eternal sleep uninterrupted by any in the land above. Devya was meant to lay untouched in her stone bed. The idea of taking a relic from her grave, in which case the meaning of relic would be a piece of her actual corpse, seemed a death sentence. And he didn't feel like joining his new Master just yet. There seemed only one answer.

Oran Rahl. The crypt of Oran Rahl and the ancient line of Rahl lay in a separate mausoleum beneath the Peoples Palace than the line branched off and started by his younger brother, Balthazar.

Truthfully, the line of Rahl which Darken was born from, was not the true line of Rahl. The line of the First Kings, the first era of the dynasty, had died with Oran. Balthazar, though his brother, was born to be the advisor to his brother; he was never meant to take the throne, yet when the Seeker's tragic death had come, there had been no one left but the sixteen-year-old boy. There had been those that thought he ordered his brother's murdered so that he could take the throne, but Balthazar had never ordered any such crime. He had loved his brother more than anything; their parents had died when they were young. Oran had taken the throne before he was seventeen himself. Their father had died while their mother was pregnant with Balthazar - the boy never met this father. Their mother died within a few weeks of birthing Balthazar. In truth, Oran had been the only family, the only parent, that Balthazar had ever known. He loved his elder brother as he would have loved his father. Oran was the father to his younger brother. And the young brother would never have hurt him, not for anything. Oran had not been murdered, at least by no one fighting on his side. The soldiers that had beaten him, and whom Devya died to confess, had sealed his ultimate death. The injuries had just been too great, and the strain of the heartache brought on by the death of his Confessor, had brought him too much pain. He finally succumbed when he finally let the realization that he would never see the dark haired woman in life again sink into his psyche.

Perhaps the tomb of the Seeker would wield a piece of the Confessor. While Darken knew not the connection between Oran and Devya (as was long forgotten by all), he knew that a Seeker and a Confessor had a close bond. There could not be a Seeker without his (or her) Confessor to guide him. With any luck, some small piece of the ancient Mother Confessor would be retained within the grave of his forbearer.


	17. Chapter Sixteen: Resurrection

**Disclaimer: **See previous Chapters

_**Chapter Sixteen: **_**Resurrection**

They scattered like cockroaches as he marched down the hallway. All the servants that once served their King out of love, now felt little but fear. The echoing of healed leather boot heels clicking and echoing down the stone hallway had been their warning. They moved out of the way, throwing themselves against the walls as Darken rounded the corner.

Behind him, drawn out like the streaming banner, were the tails of his long red velvet overcoat. His hair drifted back with the power of the light breeze created by his angry marching. His strides were elongated. His progress angered as he made his way down the ancient halls.

The servants looked on in horror. Something was very different about their King. They could feel it, yet they could not place it. There was a strange emptiness radiating out from him; a feeling of dread washed over all those who bore him witness. A feeling of helplessness. Unlike anything they had ever felt before. Older men and women knew not what it was, but young servants felt the shiver run through themselves. Their blood run cold. While they could not be certain, to them it felt as though he had lost the one part of him that left him human after his breaking. His soul. He was empty inside; the soul no longer existent. There were only two ways for this feeling to be possible; for the King to have died and his spirit moved onto the Halls of Eternal Peace (which was clearly not the case as he was living and breathing as he stormed down the corridors)… or… Darken Rahl had sold his soul to the Keeper for a reward.

Darken had no time (or rather held no patience) to deal with the gasping of the servants. Let them look at him as though he were a beast, at the moment he did not care. If they feared him, than they would cooperate. It only made sense. It was just good business. Being the kind hearted man had lead him into trouble in the past- it was the very reason for his breaking. But the breaking had made him who he was now; a perfect, strict, cruel, being. A deity of pain and torture. It would start as fear in their eyes as he passed, and it would end with his worship. He was certain of it. So let them look at him as such. He was not in the place to correct it, nor did he feel the need. His anger was already burning, but it was burning for another reason. The servants were not a concern of his.

The dungeons were disgusting, to say the least. The rock from which they were carved, was damp and wet with condensation. Moss was growing on the walls. At least it was glitter moss, which gave the stone corridors a slight sparkling glow of green light. His boots both clicked and sloshed through the dampness and the puddles of filthy water. It would stain the dark red leather, and ruin the hems of his velvet underskirts, but he didn't seem to pay that side of it any attention. His hands were clasped behind his back, and in them he held the long and cruel iron tongs used by the Blacksmith in his forge. His shoulders drawn back in an arrogant, _holier than thou_, manner. The glimmer of the glitter moss illuminated austere features and danced like the Northern Lights over his dark locks.

Lining the sides of the stone passageway were cells, full of people (and corpses), that were held back by heavy iron grating. They were starving, they were filthy, they were sick, they were dying, and they were dead. They were guilty, they were innocent; they cried out their torment for all to hear. When they saw the flash of his red velvet they lit up; eyes shimmering with hope and hands thrust through the bars as they reached towards the marching King. Aching for the chance to touch him; to brush their fingers over the soft fabric of his raiment. For their crimes, they wished only the chance to make their case to the King. "Father Rahl!", many voices called out, all drawing out his name as they choked and coughed. The stench of excrement and decomposing cadavers was enough to kill a grave feasting rat. Where there was not excrement upon the stone floor, it was blood. Where there was not blood, it was the fluids seeping from rotting carcasses, that ran along the grouting between the stone tiles.

Darken Rahl walked through the passage, ignoring the calls for him. Ignoring the fingers brushing against his shoulders and his arms. He cared not for the begging of prisoners. Whatever they had done to warrant themselves this place in captivity, here in the stinking abyss of the Peoples Palace's prison, was reason enough for him to ignore them. Perhaps the year before he would have paid them attention, but even those begging _"Bring a Confessor!"_ (which ninety-nine percent of the time was an assurance that the man [or woman] was innocent [as no person would be willing to go through confession if they were truly guilty. It would expose innocence, and further condemn guilt.]), he ignored. After all, what was a prisoner, but one more person that would die and leave the world ever more peaceful?

He sauntered through the stone passageway, his shoulders drawn back and his hands still clasped behind his back. The filth upon the stone beneath his booted feet seemed to concern him less and less; even as the filth splattered against the highly shined brass caps riveted over the point in the toe of his boots. His only concern was what lay behind the stone door at the end of the corridor.

They stood, in their black and red leather tabards, with the doorway between them. The entrance was blocked by their crossed scythes. They stared forward like statues, anxious to meet their Master's eyes. The pale thin moonlight that managed to seep its way down into the dungeon from a few cracks in the stone walls near the ceiling glinted off of the sharp edges of the curved blades. Blades held aloft like the sickle of the Grim Reaper.

"Move.", his voice came low but calmly. There was an edge of steel hiding just behind his tone; waiting to be challenged.

The man on the left spoke up first, "We're sorry Father Rahl, but it's far too dangerous passed these doors for you. It's for your own safety, my Lord. You cannot be down here with the captive monster."

"You mean the Shadrin. I **KNOW** what is dwelling in **my **prisons, officer!", he moved closer, till he was face to face with the man.

The guard did not want to show the surprise that he held, but he flinched slightly when he realized how close the King was to his person. From his peripheral vision he could see the glint of the gold sheath resting on the young king's blood red velvet clad hip. He didn't want to be another Anthropomancy experiment for the young man. He swallowed nervously. "I understand my Lord. Forgive me, Father Rahl. I was only seeking to keep you safe."

Rahl's steely eyes were narrowed, but he was gazing into the eyes of the man. "I can take care of myself. I suggest you move and let me through."

The man turned his eyes swiftly towards his partner's. He knew they had orders, but he was never told what to do if the King himself should give out contradictory commandments.

The second officer glanced to his colleague, and shook his head swiftly; hoping that the King did not see him.

Darken had naturally seen the movement from the corner of his right eye. He turned his dark irises towards him, while he stepped back from the first of the guards. The first man let out a slight sigh. He was normally a well put together man, nearly immovable. But he had heard the stories of how his Master had become. He knew it was better to follow orders (no matter how contradictory they were) than it was to challenge the most powerful man in the Three Territories. Darken took a step back. "Are you going to move or not?"

The two men adjusted themselves, standing at perfect attention once more; the blades of their battle scythes crossed again. Together, they contemplated, they could keep their Master from entering a dangerous territory.

Darken's right eye began to twitch violently. He was getting tired of these games. What was this, everyone anger the King day? He closed his eyes briefly and drew in a deep, foul smelling, breath, seeking to calm himself. When he opened his eyes once again, the dangerous flash remained. "I am going to ask you again. Move. Or I will move you."

The sweat was starting to bead on the men's foreheads, but they knew the orders, and they knew what horrors lay beyond the stone door which they guarded. It was no place for anyone, but those that were used to feed the monster. They could not risk losing the King of D'Hara to such a horrible and disgusting fate. Not now that they finally had him once again within the walls of the Peoples Palace. They remained motionless.

That was going to be it. They would move, whether they were the ones to do it, or not. He unclasped his right hand from around his left wrist (the left hand still held the iron tongs). He balled his right fist and concentrated a moment, letting the power build in his blood. He turned his fist towards the first guard, who was sweating the worst of the two men. The one that had been terrified of becoming an Anthropomancy experiment. He opened his hand, splaying his fingers and exposing his palm. From his hand was released a blast of magic; a shockwave which collided with the soldier and sent him backwards through the air before he collided with the granite door. Darken turned to the second soldier, and released the second blast of magic as the man shifted, moving his scythe towards the King almost threateningly.

They lay with their backs slumped against the cold stone, groaning. Their bodies aching from the blow of magic to their chests, and their collision with the heavy stone gate. Everything, from head to toe, ached. Bruises were without question, but broken bones were just as likely. Reality swam in and out of focus, yet there was one thing that was all too clear.

Darken put hand behind his back once more as he sauntered towards them. He was looking down his nose at them, both literally, and figuratively. "I suggest, dear soldiers, that the next time I ask you to move, **you move**.", from behind his back he pulled the tongs. Holding them closed as he used them point at each man. The head moved between each men; their eyes crossing to look at the forceps. "Else I may not be so lenient.", his voice was calm as if he had not a care in all the world. He moved between them, and kicked them out of the way and off of the door as he cast the spell to open it. "Vestri vinco requiro vos ut secui." The stone doors slowly creaked apart; their bottoms grinding over the gravel on the old stone floor. Darken leisurely stepped inside, before glancing back at the two men. "Oh. And gentlemen?", he moved the forceps from behind his back once more. "The next time you do not follow orders, these will be used. And you won't like it.", he smiled and nodded his head to them, "Have a nice evening.", he turned around and walked into the further recesses of the dark dungeon.

The broken and beaten men groaned looking between each other. They had a fleeting idea of what the pincers might be used for, but they certainly did not want to see if their suspicions were correct.

Bones littered the floor; the stench of sweat and blood was inescapable. The humidity down here was a shock as opposed to the cool dampness of the last passage way. The stench of rot was just as bad in this dark cage, if not worse, than in the main dungeons. Darken tried to ignore it, even though it turned his stomach. He wouldn't let it show, he was above that. He was impervious now. But, it was still disgusting no matter what way one cut the cake. So to speak.

In the darkness, the heavy snorting and grunting of a beast displeased sounded. Just like always before; Darken's presence meant nothing to the animal chained. And chained it was, as Darken could see as he approached through the stinking pit. Illuminated by slivers of pale moonlight, and the faint whispering glow of glitter moss, was a creature indescribable. With he head of a great and savage bull with a massive rack of horns, or antlers (in this light it was a little hard to tell), the Shadrin glared back at him. Glowing yellow eyes cut through the shadows and tried to bore their way into the King's soul. Something that was no longer there to be tunnelled through. Yet with the head of a bull, it had a bear's gaping maw; it's torso was massive, and masculine; built like Greek Mythology's Minotaur. But beyond that, It was unspeakable. There were tentacles, and dozens, if not a hundred or more of them. They were laced with angry hook-like claws all along the undersides; meant for gripping and holding prey; the ends of each tentacle ended in large hooks, reserved for tearing living flesh from bone and making it nothing more than meat to be consumed. The tentacles were held by steel shackles locked around them, thirty to a tentacle, each locked to a steel chain driven into the rough cut stone of the cell walls. It's arms, like a man's, were bound with chains and held back from the Shadrin's use. There was a heavy collar locked about it's neck which attached to three chains that went through heavy steel eyes anchored into the unfinished, rough, stone walls. Yet the appearance of the monster did not frighten the King; this eve he had seen things that would have driven other men mad. Would have driven them to suicide in fright. And yet he remained as sane as ever.

Flanked on either side of the beast, stood two men. Two soldiers like those who had guarded the stone door leading to this nightmarish place. When they saw the King, the bowed their heads, and moved their scythes as they stepped further to the sides of the beast. They, unlike the others, knew better than to question their Master, or try to turn him back.

Darken strode forward, "Good. You know your place."

The soldiers answered in sync with each other. Their monotony, and their timing was a little unnerving. "Yes Master Rahl."

Darken had to smirk a little; one half of his mouth curling up in a deep, arrogant, pleasure. He walked up close to the animal, the **angry**, chained animal. The Shadrin's head alone was the size of his head, shoulders, and torso. It was snorting angrily and glaring at him. Darken tilted his head to the side mock innocently. "I'm sorry, it must be hell for you down here."

The Shadrin's eyes flashed back and forth, trying to read into the human's mind. But it gathered nothing. Though, it knew better than to believe any words coming from the man's mouth. After all, he was the one keeping him captive. Keeping him here in the dark, shackled and locked stationary to one location. Yet, he still wanted to know what the puny human had to say.

Darken continued, his voice sweet, "I know what it is like to be held captive; a helpless animal. And I know what it is like to be tortured, and shackled like an animal on a trap line. I know the pain you feel, maybe not exactly as you seem to have more to your body than I, but I know pain, and I know humiliation.", he lifted his right hand from behind his back (where he still clutched the Blacksmith's tongs). He put his hand gently upon the monster's jaw, patting it carefully. The soldiers tensed. The Shadrin was still capable of opening it's mouth, and they feared that their King would lose his hand.

The Shadrin kept looking into the man's steely blue eyes. While it did not trust the tiny man dressed in red, it knew better than to show it's distrust. He continued to watch, and wait, listening to the flinty voice of the young King. It was all he could do, shackled in place.

Darken continued to caress the enormous jaw for a moment. "I know the hell you are in.", yet as he finished the soft sentence, looking sympathetically into the monster's yellow eyes, his voice took a hard and merciless edge. "I will make it a hell beyond any that you have yet known.", he lifted the tongs quickly, and clamped them about one of the exposed fangs of the monster. He held the leather wrapped grips tightly. The Shadrin's eyes widened briefly but he could do nothing to fight it. He threw his head as best he could to shake the man loose. Yet Darken held tightly, while smirking his cruelty. No matter how the Shadrin tried to fight, the shackles held it nearly still, and so the King had nothing to fear. Darken finally exerted his strength, pushing it to its limits. Yet he prevailed in the task. The immense fang gave way; the nerves snapping. The root pulled loose, and Darken was left with the fang, now separate from its owner, in the pinchers of his forceps.

The blood had burst outwards the moment the nerves broke and the root gave way. The gush of hot blood struck Darken in the face. He closed his eyes and gasped just a little as the hot, sticky, red liquid covered his features and wet his hair. It dripped down off of his jaw and down onto the exposed area of his tanned breast, as the Shadrin roared and screamed in pain. It kept trying to throw it's head in pain. It was after all only another animal.

The guards stood still, looking towards the door as they had always done. They waited for the King to do as he would. Though, the action he had performed had caught them ever so slightly off guard. They knew enough that he would not come down to visit the beast just to see it. He had never done as such in the three years that he had the custody of the once mythical monster.

Darken raised a hand and pushed his bloody hair out of his face; his eyes were still closed against the spurt of gore. He cleared his throat ever so slightly as he took a step backwards. He opened his eyes once he was back away from the monster who was now howling his pain. The son of Panis Rahl brushed his hair back from his face once more. In his hands he still held the forceps; his left hand wrapped around both handles at once. The fang was held in the pincers. When he saw the canine of the beast, he had to smirk. He had what he wanted. Even if he were the bloodier for it.

He held the fang in the forceps tightly, and the forceps gripped in his right hand held at his side as he left the Shadrin's cell. He marched out passed the guards, who had finally once again stood to their feet. They had been too intimidated to dare peer through the darkness to witness what he had performed on the captive monster. Yet as he strode out passed them, the first guard, who stood on Darken's right side, could not help but notice the massive ivory incisor. His eyes widened a little and he swallowed.

As he marched his back through the dungeons, the prisoners that had called out for him desperately, fell silent when their eyes fell upon the object carried by Father Rahl. They knew better than to ask for his help again. Clearly when angered he was capable of more than they had given him credit for. He had ripped the fang from a Shadrin. He strode forward, with long steps to keep a quickened pace; his head was nearly bowed. His icy eyes peered up from the top, through his lashes as he kept his chin lowered a little. His shadowy hair, though wet with blood, flowed back from his face with the swiftness of his gait.

The forceps were returned to the King's personal Blacksmith (whom shod Darken's war horse, Feardorcha, and whetted the King's sword blade and cared for the other metallic possessions of the young Father Rahl), Wilhelm. Darken quickly thanked them. Wilhelm could only stare in shock at the fang that Rahl held in his hand as the iron tool was handed back to him. Covered in blood. "You're welcome, Sir…"

Darken returned to his study once more, to lay the Shadrin's fang into the grimoire's pages. To mark the place of the spell of resurrection. He briefly reread over the list of things needed, though he was already sure of them all. _Blood drawn from living flesh, promised in care, The fang from a Shadrin rare, Relic of soul from the beloved__'__s grave or apart ,And love bourn in thine beating heart._ His blood, the fang, and love (he supposed) was already accounted for. He assumed he must love Devya if he was trying to resurrect her. She at least held his interest enough to make him want to hold her and touch her in the flesh. Yet the last element needed would prove tricky.

There were two options left to him:

Send word to Confessor Serena, the Mother Confessor, in Aydindril telling her outright of his plan to raise Devya, and pray that she would return to him a piece of the body. Even the smallest piece would have done; a fraction of a toe; a yellowed and mummified fingernail; a lock of dark hair that it itself had already nearly turned to ash. He could send word to the Mother Confessor, and pray that she would give him this piece; he would after all tell her that it was for the benefit of the Confessors and not his own. He would tell Serena that he had raised her for them to worship as a living deity (for he was assured that Devya, once raised, would retain all that she had been and all that she had known). Yet in his blackened heart Darken knew that Serena would never allow this. He knew that she would tell him the same thing anyone else would (anyone that he might have bothered to listen to that is):_ Devya is in the Halls of Eternal Peace. It is not your place to disturb her. Her time has come and it has gone, she had lain for three thousand years. She will remain as such. Leave her be._

The other option was more of a gamble than he cared to put the stake of his _happiness _upon. Yet Darken knew there was little other choice to be had. He could only pray that Oran Rahl, his ancestor, in his grave retained some small piece, some small belonging of Devya's. Anything, a ring, a pendant, a bead, a coin. A lock of hair. A strand even! Anything that he would be assured was that of Devya's and not Oran's. while he did not admonish the thought of raising the once young King from his death, he would prefer to raise Devya. And if the time came that he needed Oran as well, well then he would raise him. The Shadrin still had another top fang.

Darken sat beside the sacrificial table upon which the grimoire lay in ash. The ash of Ansleigh. He tapped his fingers against the ancient vellum, as he thought. He gazed down towards the old lettering, whether he realized it or not. In the end he supposed that there was truly no fighting it; it had to be done. He sighed to himself and uncrossed his right leg from the left as he put his palms on the ends of the arms of the chair. He pushed himself up to his feet before he stalked once more from the study through the onyx doors. The firelight of the torches glimmered and glittered on the black stone like the moon on the sea still as glass.

His footsteps echoed down the halls once more. But they carried him down stone stairs, passed the dungeons and deep into the foundations of the ancient palace. Yet they bore him further still into darkness beneath all the known areas of the palace. Beyond even the crypt of his father and his forefathers. Down into the shadows of the ancient eras of the Rahl dynasty.

Before him, after over an hour of descending stairways and mending broken and pitted stone steps damaged from two thousand or more years of neglect, he finally stood before the doors to ancient crypt. The grand doors, once made of the finest and most brilliant mahogany and the most shimmering silver, were covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. The filth hid the intricate metal work upon the doors' braces, and covered the lock, rendering it both invisible and nearly useless. The entire entry way was covered in filth and dust. There was a sadness to it. A sadness to the fact that the Crypt of the First Kings had been utterly and completely forgotten in time. Darken held up his hand, and whispered soft words lost in the darkness. The ancient lock waited a moment before it finally clicked. The metallic ring gave him a little hope as he pulled the lock from the doors. The cobwebs, he soon discovered, were nearly five inches in depth and clung to his flesh and his velvets alike. They were cold, and they were grungy as he plunged his hand into them. When the lock was taken from it's band on the entrance, Darken brushed away more of the dirt and grime, to expose the handles: two ornately crafted silver crescent moons, facing back to back. In the middle of their curving bodies they cradled a seven pointed star; the ancient symbol of the House of Rahl. The symbol that was not used after Balthazar took his place as King after the death of his brother Oran. It was not for hatred of the line before him, but for the ache of the memory of lost loved ones that Balthazar had instead took the two great Rs that stood back to back. He had taken the new sign of D'Hara for his own as a way of moving on, and giving the Kingdom a chance to move on from the mourning of the Seeker. Yet Darken could not deny that the crescent moon and the Second Septegram (the seven pointed star also called the _Elven Star _or _Fairy Star _in some Pagan beliefs) was a beautiful and somehow enchanting emblem, if only because it had been _lost _to the Kingdom three thousand years before. He wrapped his hands around the doors and pulled them as hard as he could. The doors, old and warped with time, budged slowly; their hinges creaking. The gateway finally opened up, revealing a light in the darkness behind.

He had to shield his eyes from the moonlight as he stepped inside the ancient mausoleum. Darken was more than well aware that he was beneath the Palace, so far indeed that where he stood was burrowed deep into the bedrock of the cliff-face upon which the Peoples Palace was built nearly four thousand years prior. How was it possible that moonlight shone into the crypt? Darken kept his eyes shielded as he glanced around, finding the offending beam of clean blue-white light. Keeping his eyes narrowed and his hand held to his brow to protect against the radiance, he looked up the wall towards the source. And there was his answer; at the top of the mausoleum wall, near the vaulted ceiling. Into the stone wall were embedded four large diamond-like cut crystals arranged into the shape of a diamond. They glittered and shone so brightly with and internal light, that Darken nearly swore that he _heard_ them sparkling. Four gems had been filled with magic; enchanted to light the way even in death.

He turned away, uncovering his eyes as they finally adjusted to the change in light. He blinked a few times, but the mausoleum came into focus. It was a large circular room and reached back into the black depths further than he could imagine. But realizing how many Kings (and Queens) must be buried here, there was no question as to why the antechamber was entirely so large. A thousand years worth of Kings, starting with Alric, and concluding with Oran, were laid to rest here in the forgotten gloom. Each King had a display of his favourite weapons mounted upon the wall above their heads. Names and deeds of the men and women forgotten to those that followed them. The crypt, the part which he could see, was massive, and beautifully built. Tall pillars held up the vaulted ceiling, and separated each reign from the last, and shielded it from the next. As far as Darken could see in the gloom there were stone sarcophagi. They were laid in pairs; the King with his Queen laying at the left hand side. Each stone casket was covered by a stone effigy of the man or woman interred within, and for the most part the tombs lay so that the shoulders of the Kings and their Queens were no more than half a foot apart. At first Darken thought it strange that the Queens of Old were laid to the left of their Kings; common sense told him that the Queen should rest on the King's right hand side. She should lay close to him and be his greatest advisor (he was more than aware that to the ancient line the Queens were everything, and that only within the last five hundred years had his ancestors taken on the attitude of _Rahls do not marry. Rahls scatter their seed and whatever dirt it grows out of is she who bears the flower that will be the heir._) But gazing into the stylized and simplified faces of the stone couple off to his own left hand side (the "moonlight" now to his back) he realized why she lay on her husband's left side. There she was closer to his heart. And she would lay there forever in love and peace with that whom she loved. He couldn't help but smile a little, just a little, as he knew it was safe here to do. Here in the crypts he was utterly alone. The idea, once he realized what it truly meant, was sweet.

But, he still had to find Oran, in hopes that from the tomb he might take a relic of the ancient Mother Confessor Devya. But as he gazed around, reading years written in High D'Haran, he realized that the more _recent _the reign, the closer the sarcophagus was to him. There, directly in front of him, was Rórdán Rahl; the father of Oran and Balthazar Rahl. The name of the King from which Balthazar had derived the dual Rs of the House of Rahl to replace the crescent and septegram. Oran must be close by.

Darken looked around himself, but could see no other sarcophagus; the light of the glimmering jewels was blinding him ever so slightly. It was bright, as though the moon itself were present. He turned back around, lifting his arms to shield his eyes. He had paid it no attention before, thinking the crystals had only been driven into the mausoleum wall in order to bring light to the gloom for the visiting descendants to pay homage. Yet as he cut the light back from his blue eyes (slowly adjusting to it), he followed the beams as they fell down on an angle.

There, beneath the cold _moonlight_, lay a lone sarcophagus. There was no Queen at his side, though room had been left for her grave. This King was completely alone in his eternity. To another, other than Darken Rahl, it would have been a heartbreaking sight. Darken slowly moved his hand back from his face, finally accustomed to the brilliant light once again. He immediately looked back towards the wall, expecting to see a display of weaponry like the others. Like Rórdán's crossed battle axes, yet Darken saw nothing. No axes, scythes, bows, or swords. He did not even see a dagger put on display. His dark and perfectly shaped brows knit together, confused why there would be no weapon for the King. His eye glanced to the small placard which read the years of his reign, but that is not all that was written upon it. In proud High D'Hara runes, spelt out for all to read, was a simple sentence:

_Here lies Oran Rahl: The Seeker of Truth. _

A shiver ran through Darken Rahl, whether a shiver of cold, or of intimidation he was not sure. Or whether it was a shiver of sheer enchantment. While he knew his history well, it always seemed like mere legend, but to stand here in the presence of the Kings of Old, great men and women, was an honour.

The enchanted moonlight streamed down from high above and illuminated the effigy of Oran Rahl. It now made perfect sense as to why above his grave there were no weapons displayed. Oran's weapon, and the most important weapon in all the world, was buried with him. Right inside his sarcophagus. The Sword of Truth was laid next to its true master, when it's master had died after the Last Battle. And there the blade of the Seeker had remained for a thousand years before the next Seeker was called upon, before the world had need of such a man once again. It also made perfect sense that there was no Queen laying at Oran's side for eternity. Oran never took a wife, or had a child. But Darken, as he stared at the empty space, could not help but wonder: was Devya once meant to rest at his side forever? After all a Seeker and his Confessor were bonded closely, and as far as he had heard, all Seekers and their Confessors were buried side by side when their time finally came. They had served together in life, it only made sense to serve together in death. If Darken had had a heart like any other, the vision of Oran's stone figure laying alone in the moonlight with his hands pressed together in holy palmer's kiss, while the light fell over the empty ground beside him as well, it would have been enough to break that heart. It was obvious to see that the crystals had been placed there to illuminate the Seeker and whoever (most likely Devya) who was meant to lay at his side. To illuminate them above all others for all eternity.

Darken knew it was a desecration, but it needed to be done. He stepped forward through the moonlight and stood at the right side of Oran's grave. He closed his eyes a moment, hanging his head as he clasped his hands against his lower stomach. "Forgive me, Seeker, for the crime I am about to commit.", Darken opened his eyes once more. The white light made his irises glitter like sapphires shrouded by night coloured tresses. He licked his lips before putting his hands on the side of the massive marble lid of the sarcophagus. He moved his right leg out behind himself, while his left bent forward to give himself more leverage as he pushed. Heaving the great cover slowly out of the way.

It took a moment, but the dust settled. Darken fanned the crypt dust out of his face as he stood back from opening the coffin. He slowly peered inside, as the moonlight fell over the body long interred. It was both heart wrenching (if you had a heart) and horrifying.

Oran Rahl, laid to rest three thousand years before, was nearly perfectly mummified. While the raiment had long ago turned to dust and ash, the body remained close to what he had been in life. His flesh was nearly black, and clearly as hard as petrified timber. It was tight over his skeleton as most muscle had diminished over time. The man had been broad shouldered, it was still visible in his corpse. The flesh of his face was tight over high cheekbones, and his mouth; yellowed teeth her just barely visible between parted black lips. An arrogant nose, though reduced in death, had been dignified in life. His eyes were closed, but had no doubt rotted away years before. Darken couldn't help but wonder if the ancient Rahl's eyes had been blue in life. The closer he looked, the more he could see in detail. When Oran had died, he wore a very close clipped moustache and goatee, much like that which Darken wore now. The whiskers were still visible protruding from taut blackened flesh. Oran's hair was still laid about his shoulders as it had been the day he was lovingly placed into his sarcophagus. It was a curious thing, the hair was. Unlike the line of Kings of the House of Rahl who were for the most part all golden, or auburn haired (it ranged from reddish muddy blonde to platinum nearly white blond depending on the generation), his locks were dark. Oran was brunette, with a touch of black and a touch of red in his hair. The red shimmered in the white light of the moon crystals. Yet as Darken looked closer, he could see that Oran had been going white haired; he had been turning silver haired from the stress of being both the King of a Realm on the verge of invasion, and of being the Seeker. The one person whom all would follow, and who would stand up against the enemy. Oran was only two years older than Darken was now, when he died. He had only been twenty seven years of age.

But Darken had to stop his intense stare upon the corpse. He was taking too much time. He only wanted to find a trace of Devya, and be gone. He pushed the lid just a little farther out of way. And there he saw it. It was so obvious, glittering in the light of the moon.

Clenched in the mummified right hand of the King was a necklace of goldstone and blue goldstone beads on copper wire interlocking swirls. The goldstone was a beautiful rust colour which sparkled with a hundred thousand minute speckles of gold in each tiny bead. The blue goldstone was much the same, but was a deep blue, nearly black bead, shimmering with thousands of speckles of pale blue, violet and similar colours. While the goldstone looked like the daylight, the blue goldstone was the night sky. It was an ancient charm to decorate the Mother Confessor's white breast.

At first Darken was amazed to see it, but seeing the way it was clenched in his hand, his heart sank just a little. The man had died with it in his hand; the royal embalmers had not had the heart to take it from him, and so he had been entered into his grave with it. For three thousand years he held it tight.

He was not likely to give it up for anyone.

Darken looked the necklace over a moment, before turning his eyes to the blackened hand holding it. There was no easy way of removing one from the other. He was going to have to be _careful. _He reached in and put one hand upon the copper chain, the other upon the icy cold mummified hand. Trying to protect the brittle fingers as he worked the chain loose. But, no matter what he did, the necklace would not come free.

Darken had come into the mausoleum with ever intention of leaving the body of Oran Rahl intact should he find a relic of Devya. This was not going to be the case. He fought with the necklace for a solid period of ten minutes. He had kept his patience well, he thought. But no more. Enough was enough. He wanted the relic, he wanted to raise Devya. He wanted Devya for himself. Tightening his grip upon the copper swirling links and the goldstone beads, he jerked his arm back with as much force as he could muster for the job. The black and brittle fingers of his mummified ancestor broke away from the hand. Instantly releasing the jewels that he had held for three thousand years.

Darken looked down at the exquisite necklace in his hand; it sparkled just as brightly as it did the day it was made. The light of the moon shone off of the beads as though fire glittered just beneath their surface. In the center of the chain of beads, hanging was a large, irregular, piece of blue goldstone. It was roughly an inch in length, three quarters of an inch in width, and half an inch in diameter. It shone like the night sky. On either side of the pendant, flanking it, were two great swirling copper pieces, almost like the letter S. they faced back to back with the blue goldstone pendant between them. It truly was lovely, and he did not want to ruin the entire piece. Perhaps he could take a piece from it, just a bead, and then repair it. He could then give it once more to Devya, for her to wear. He glanced quickly back to the open sarcophagus. If he did not know better, he would have sworn that Oran's eye brows had knit together ever s slightly since the relic had been taken from him. Darken shook his head, banishing such thoughts. The dead were exactly that. Dead. Oran did not know, nor did he care, that the necklace had been taken from his dead hand after so long. He held the chain close in his own right hand as he walked around to the left side of the grave. Pushing the lid closed once more, slowly with his left hand and his right hip. When it was closed, he gave a sigh of relief.

Darken was happy to be out of the crypts. Not because there was anything to fear, but because he knew his desire was closer and closer at hand. Devya was nearly his. His obsession would soon be slaked. The need to have _his _Mother Confessor was almost too great. Though, it was also cold as ice in the deep crypts, it was nice to be back in the warm palace. He never thought he would be so happy to enter the Anthropomancy study in all of his life. But the stone room was both warm with the glowing torches, and held the Shadrin's fang, and the book which he needed to complete the resurrection ceremony.

Gathering up the leather bound tome (for it bore the words of the spell he would require), and the fang and the necklace, he walked once more from the study. Heading deeper into the center of the metropolis that was the Peoples Palace. Deep into the center of the city, his city. Into the Garden of Life once more. The place at which Darken Rahl was at his most powerful. He moved through the tall greenery growing; the beautiful tropic plants. The King walked towards the sacrificial table which had bourn the mutilated body of Jayden (which had since been removed by other servants), and set the objects of power upon it's clean, cool, stone surface. He pulled from his feet the filthy and ruined leather boots. He tossed them to side to be forgotten, as he stood on the luscious emerald grass. It was soft underfoot as he stretched his toes. He rolled his head back and forth against his shoulders, his head tilted back opening up his throat, as he unclasped the velvet overcoat. He shrugged the garment from his shoulders and tossed it down by his boots. Both were ruined. He shrugged his shoulders a little, loosening tense muscles before he sought to weave such magic. He drank in a deep breath of the cool, fresh air that harboured the green smell. The scent of spring, even though it was nearing winter once again.

Darken slowly turned to the table and once again opened the leather bound grimoire. His fingers danced over the page as he read through the instructions. They were simple, too simple really. But perhaps the complexity of the spell lied within the words and not the tools. But looking the verse over, he found no complexity there either. He sighed, he had known this already. Speaking the verse through the first time, he ground the Shadrin's fang (no matter how difficult it proved to be) into a course powder.

_Per res of vox_

_Quad veneficus non duco_

_Ego peperi alica of vita ex nex_

Through the verse the second time he removed one link of swirling copper which bore a blue goldstone bead from just before the clasp of the necklace. He dropped it carefully into the mortar which bore the powdered fang. Through the verse the third time, he drew the dagger from his left hip with his right hand and pressed the blade to his palm. It stung, but was little than that as he dragged the freshly whetted knife edge over his soft flesh. The crimson liquid bubbled up from the wound and he tipped his hand, letting it drip into the mortar where it bubbled furiously. He turned back to the blood. As he spoke the verse again, all light was drawn out of the great Garden; even the true moonlight shining through the tall cathedral windows was not visible. The writing in the tome turned green, and glowed as the fires of the Underworld; illuminating him in a sickly glow. He picked up the mortar once more, and reading from the book, he poured it upon the grass near to him. The second verse was to seal the spell and raise the spirit and give it a new body as it's own. "Custadis , ego quaeso animus of Devya Searus, ut erigo quod tribuo vita quod somes ut. Ego quaeso vestri intelligendo. Ego quaeso vestri bona. Custadis , ego scisco vos pro animus of Devya Searus."

According to the spell, from the spilled blood, fang, and relic, a body was supposed to be created. The powdered fang was supposed to raise and solidify, creating a strong skeleton. The blood was to create organs, muscle, flesh and hair. And the relic was to bind the spirit and personality of the deceased to the recreated body. Death was not to be remembered. It would be as though waking from a deep sleep.

Darken waited patiently. His fingers moving over the cool beads of the necklace. He waited, and waited, and yet nothing happened.

He had sacrificed his child, sold his soul, disfigured a Shadrin, and partially destroyed his ancestor. All for nothing.


	18. Chapter Seventeen: Love In Limbo

**Disclaimer: **See previous Chapters

_**Chapter Seventeen: **_**Love In Limbo**

Either the Subtractive Magic had not worked, or he had been lied to. Had he been deceived? Darken was fuming, he had waited longer than any man should have had to, and the waiting was grinding on his patience. A quality of his that was already as the fine hoarfrost that grew over the River Kern in winter: easily shattered.

The spell had called for him to sell his soul to the Keeper; he had allowed his eternal soul to be burned out from him, despite the excruciating pain, for the power to be able to call the ancient Mother Confessor out of her death and into his arms. In order to be able to sell his soul to the Keeper, he had to first sacrifice the child he had taken into his home and into his once loving heart. The boy he had truthfully cared for. At least he had before Mistress Evelyn had had her way in his breaking. To perform the spell he had to rip the fang from a Shadrin. That was nothing, the animal was there as his captive, it didn't bother him to inflict pain upon it. It was the taking of the relic that bothered him slightly, under the hardened surface. He had desecrated a grave of his own flesh and blood (despite how far back in history that Oran was in his family line). But he was going to have to let that go.

He seemed to have been waiting forever. He had waited longer, in case the magic took a while to work. It didn't. the spell had failed. The Keeper had tricked him, and now he was forever the servant to the one enemy of the Creator. The one enemy of the Living World. The one being that people would risk everything to escape should he make his presence known in the world above the Underworld. And that was the one thing that Darken had promised him besides his soul. Power in the Land of the Living. Just what had been done that night?

His mind burned, but Darken knew it would pass. It was not the only time he had felt it. All through his life the crushing sense of loss of control had weighed him down. He might have been a good and benevolent ruler, but he had held control of everything in the Kingdom of D'Hara. It wasn't a dictatorial rule, but one where the people knew where to turn when they needed help. He controlled nearly everything but the very weather and the growing seasons. But that had been stripped from him the night that Brionna had pulled him from his warm bed and the entangled white limbs of his lover. For seven months everything had been completely out of his control; and because it was entirely out of his control, he strove for rule over everything.

Devya had only been the start. He had strove to make the Mother Confessor his. He thought that if he was the one to raise the woman from her death, that she would love him like her husband. If he had a Confessor under his roof who loved him, he could control her, and if he could control the Confessor, especially one that was so highly worshipped, he would be in control of everything.

Oh what a thought that was. Control of everything. Then nothing could ever hurt him or anyone he _cared _for ever again. Everything would be well, no matter how much it cost to reach that state of peace. But for now it was nothing more than a pipedream.

Darken couldn't believe that the Keeper had fooled him so easily; he was a clever man. Too clever for his own good most of the time . Yet here he stood; alone and humiliated in the Garden of Life. Not for long. No, not for long. He would have his peace again. The Mord'Sith would give him back some of the control that he had lost. It was a strange thought that one. That Mord'Sith, the reason for his lack of control, would return it to him when he needed it. But Mord'Sith weren't so bad; they had their _redeeming features_.

He drew a deep breath, closing his eyes tightly and leaned his head slightly back. The cords of muscle in his tanned neck pulled slightly; showing their shape under his flesh. The air of the Garden of Life was heavily laden with the scent of many night-blooming flowers. It was a perfume fit for a Queen. A Queen that D'Hara, at this rate, was unlikely to see before Darken reached his thirtieth year. Maybe that was the best. Perhaps if he was older than he was now when the _right _woman came into his life, he would be a calmer spirit. Perhaps when the right woman came he would be a force, though given to the Keeper, that was easily tamed by the touch of a loving woman. Maybe, just maybe, Tarralyn would even return to him. Though, that thought was a stretch. Even Darken had to admit to that. It seemed less and less likely that the woman he had taken in, cared for, healed, and loved, would return to him. And how could he blame her? He was a monster. Hopefully she had seen this fact and had at least moved on and found herself another. Someone that could taken care of her the way a devoted husband could. The King was not one that had the time to cover the inconsequential problems of an over worrying wife. Darken shook his head of the thoughts; the floral scent in the air had been meant to calm him, relieve his burning mind, not further enflame it.

Taking that deep breath, Darken Rahl cajoled his mind into a state of peace, at least until he reached the Mord'Sith temple on the grounds of the Palace. There he could let the anger and frustration flood back to him; the Sisters would make it right again. He slowly opened his blue eyes, and stared out of the grand and high cathedral windows for a long moment. His head turned slightly over his shoulder so he could peer over the sacrificial table at his side. The night was so beautiful as it always was. But, it would have been more beautiful with Devya at his side. Clearly that was never going to be. Devya was never meant to be _his _Queen. At least not in the flesh; he would have given anything at the moment to see her spirit once again; even faceless as she had been in his waking moments. He would have given anything to lay his eyes over her and know that she was still with him (even though it aggravated him to be unable to call her when wished and to be unable to touch her- he had always been reliant on when she wished to touch him; to brush his hair out of his eyes.), but there was nothing left of him to give. His soul, the one eternally living part of him, was already traded for the magic that was meant to bring her to him. Even in death, with the power of the Keeper at his disposal, she had still defied his calls for her. He knew that he would never see the Queen's Garden in his dreams with the Mother Confessor ever again. If he had been decent enough to enter before, all trace of that was vanquished. All signs of whatever goodness that had remained, were destroyed along with his soul. Nevertheless, the night was beautiful. It was undeniable. The moon in its perfect full form, glowed like a beacon of purity in the dark shrouded sky.

He left the black leather grimoire in its place on the stone slab; the servants knew better than to touch his tools of magic. They would tidy up the mess made, and remove the discarded and ruined boots and velvet overcoat. More would be made by the royal seamstress, and life would carry on. He left the book in place as he turned away and walked back through the soft long grass and through the luscious growing plants in the garden; a circle of paradise in the center of the Peoples Palace. A fraction of heaven that would always bring the Father Rahl back into reality, no matter how he seemed to slip from it from time to time. The doors parted and made way as he approached them; their magic bound with his as the ruling Lord Rahl.

The halls were dark, the servants had retired for the evening. The night was late. In a few short hours the sun would rise and the hustle and bustling routine would start throughout the Peoples Palace once again. Darken was not tired, so much as he was exhausted. The ware put upon him was not physical so much as it was mental and emotional. He had put more of himself into that enchantment than he cared to admit. The marble under his bare feet was chilled, like ice. He supposed it had to do with the coming winter in the lands beyond the palace. The approaching season had already set into the stone of the great city as it did every year.

Darken kept to himself, trying to keep himself as calm as he could. The peace however was not meant to last for the young King.

"Father Rahl!", a man voice came from the hall behind him, and Darken sighed to himself as he paused in his stride. He took a deep breath and exhaled loudly as he turned around to face the soldier.

"What is -", Darken paused when he looked the man over. He was not wearing the colours of D'Hara, but the white and silver wear of Aydindril. His dark brows knit and the left side of his upper lip curled up with confused and dark thoughts. Why was there a man from the home of the Wizards and the Confessors here in **his** palace? Why was a man from Aydindril in the Peoples Palace when Darken had neither sent word of any sort to the Mother Confessor, nor had he heard any news from them. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if they had somehow known of his intentions with Devya Searus, but he internally shook himself. It was not possible for the Mother Confessor, two hundred leagues away, to know what he was thinking and planning. She had no way of seeing into his mind or even into his home, did she? Again he shook himself. Of course Serena had been oblivious to his thoughts and actions. It took a month or more of travelling (if one could get through the boundary), for a man (or woman) to come from the Palace of the Confessors and into the Peoples Palace. Yet as he stared back at the man in white with is wintry eyes boring holes into him, he realized something. He had seen this man before, just that day in fact. And he had been wearing the red and black of D'Hara. Darken, in the pit of his stomach, knew that he was about to receive ill news, very ill news indeed. "What is it?"

The man put his palms together in prayer, and bowed down to the D'Haran King. Darken couldn't help but roll his eyes at the gesture. Thinking only, _hurry up and spit it out!_, to himself. The man that had come from Aydindril raised once more, and caught the glint in his Master's eye. He swallowed quickly before taking a deep breath. "Father Rahl I have been forcibly sworn to keep this from your knowledge since the day I arrived here.", he paused for a moment, not sure of how he should carry on. But seeing the Master shift his weight and fold his arms over his chest, was spurring enough. "I arrived here the evening that Ansleigh had the Mord'Sith turn on you."

Darken visibly tensed. His shoulders pulled back and he started to bare his teeth a little. "What has been kept from me for these eight months?"

The rider looked into his icy eyes for a long moment. Barely noticeable, within the irises he could see the anger swirling with confusion and hurt. Clearly the King knew that this news was related to why he was sent off to be broken by Mistress Evelyn. "Father Rahl, my name is Hubert Garethssen. My family has ever been loyal to the line of Wizards and the Order of Confessors. But nine months ago, the Great Prophet Idris, passed away. Before his death he gave one last prophecy, which he delivered to the Mother Confessor herself, the presence of her Order, and the Wizards of the Second Order. I have risked my life and commit treason against the only monarch I had ever known or worshipped before I came here to you, Father Rahl."

Despite the fact that he was quickly losing his patience (which was to be expected as they had been **greatly **tried that night), he found a gentle tone to use. "You're very brave, Hubert. Now please", Darken unfolded his arms and motioned sweepingly for the man to continue. "Do go on."

Hubert Garethssen nodded his head gently and found his voice once more. Spurred and warmed by the tone of the Lord Rahl's voice. "His prediction was not in the favour of D'Hara, my Lord."

"I will be the judge of that, Hubert, if you would just tell me what it was.", by the end of the sentence his voice had taken a slight incline in pitch; showing his increasing impatience for this subject.

"I remember it word for word my Lord: _A child will be born in Brennidon, near the Boundary of the Midlands and Westland. He will be the first True Seeker in a thousand years. This child will rise up, and defeat the greatest evil that there is: Darken Rahl._"

Darken visibly tensed once more. His jaw had squared tightly, and his nostrils flared while his blue eyes widened in anger. He was seeing red. He would have sworn that he could feel every whisker on his face quiver and come to life as he tensed. He would have sworn they all stood on end. But with the close clipped length of his moustache and goatee, it remained unseen. "Those were the words carved into the sands of time by the scribes?"

"As spoken by Idris himself my Lord."

Rahl lowered his eyes; they flashed back and forth in a dangerous dance. His nostrils were still flared, and his jaw still squared. "You are certain of this?"

"I am as certain of it as I am that you are the Father Rahl, Master."

Darken did not like surprises, and this one had swung out of the largest tree and completely knocked him backwards onto his arse. The anger that he had managed to suppress after the failure of the resurrection spell started to bubble up and froth once more. There was no denying that the sheer anger he felt needed to be released, and soon. He didn't care how, oh, but he knew how. He knew the very way of settling the howling and raging beast. Without a word, without a motion, he stormed passed Hubert. His dark hair blown back by his own quick pace. His red and gold over skirts bounced off of his thighs as he marched back into the darkness that he had emerged from little over two hours prior.

Back down the winding halls and sinking stairwells. Back into the icy coldness of the deep foundation. Back through the darkness passed the crypt of the his father and the Kings that proceeded him (though Panis had his own antechamber as Darken had ordered). Further and further into the gloom of the ancient halls and passageways. Back through the thick dust which only his feet had cut through in two thousand years. A Seeker was it? Than a Seeker would pay. Reaching the doors of the ancient mausoleum once more, he barked a single word, "Aperio!", Darken was beyond playing games. Passed letting it slip into the back of his mind. Passed cajoling. And if Devya wanted him to stop, she made no attempts to make herself known to him.

The doors of the Crypt opened once more, this time under the control of his magic rather than the strength of his arms. Inside the massive round antechamber that reached back into pitch darkness, the four moon crystals were still glowing and twinkling. They shone their beams of light down upon the stone effigy of the deceased King of Old: Oran Rahl. The mere sight of the effigy sent Darken into a further spiral of anger and hate. His bodily temperature had surely risen; he felt as though he had a fever. Yet the anger coursed through his veins with his blood. The stone figure only multiplied the feeling. In all the time it had taken to descend down into the bowels of the deep foundation, the feeling of anger, of hatred, of betrayal, had never been diminished. With each passing moment and every step further towards his goal the feeling had only grown. It was a horrid monster threatening to break through his flesh and consume all. The glittering _moonlight _was enough to drive Darken off of the edge and into the pit of his psychotic anger. He spun on his heel and marched towards the graves of Rórdán and Gwenhwyfar Rahl: the parents of Oran Rahl. Above their stone heads were the long forgotten battle axes, crossed and held in ancient iron brackets. Darken reached up and wrapped his hands around the wooden shaft of one exalted weapon, and rolling his shoulders he lifted it up and out of it's bracket where it had rested for three thousand years. The weight of the axe was immense, but the maker had crafted it to be nearly balanced. The head was large and curved (it's twin remained upon the stone wall) wickedly. Darken shifted it and his grip so that shaft closest to the blade rested in his right hand, and the tail in his left. He marched back towards the effigy of Oran. His rage gave him strength; he lifted his bare foot and put it upon the side of the stone lid, using all the force he could muster, to push it aside, just enough. When the lid would go no farther with just the strength of his right leg, he lowered his foot once more too the floor. Taking his right hand from the axe handle, he placed it on the cover and moved it further. Once it had been moved up and over the top of the sarcophagus, it was easy enough to continue sliding out of place.

Finally he gazed down once more at the corpse of his forefather; the blacked flesh, the high cheekbones and dignified nose. The dark tresses like his own. If Oran had been only the Father Rahl in his time, Darken would have left him to be. He would even have been proud to resemble the King, three thousand years later. If only for the dark hair and broad shouldered build (in life the resemblance probably would have been greater). But no. Oran Rahl had to be the First Seeker. He had to be the start of the chain of events that was prophesized to bring about the death of Darken Rahl himself. Oran, in Darken's mind, was the start of it all, and for that he was a traitor. To betray his own blood. The House of Rahl. The Blood of Alric. "You! You just had to have **everything **that I want, didn't you! You just had to have the love of all Three Territories! You had to have Devya who would clearly rather remain with you than join me! And you! You had to become the Seeker! You had to start that line of fools! Now the Seeker is to rise against me! Your own flesh and blood, Oran! Well, he will be killed, and you will be cursed and forgotten forever.", Darken hefted the battle axe up high; over his shoulder. He brought the blade down as hard as he could into the mummified torso. Oran's body split and crackled like firewood. Dust, powdered flesh, was released into the air. Adrenaline was shooting through Darken's whole body; one strike was not enough for vengeance, nor was it for the pleasure of the strike. He brought the battle axe over his shoulder, again, and again brought it down. He continued, on and on, breaking the corpse and releasing the anger he felt, for many long moments. When finally he halted his movements , the corpse was destroyed. Oran was nothing but blackened rubble. No piece was left large enough to be recognizable. Darken was panting, but the task was not over yet. He moved around the sarcophagus angrily, and shoved the lid closed once more. The effigy still remained, but not for much longer.

Darken grunted as he lifted the blade high once more, and cried out his anger as he brought it down into the stone. Steel against stone sparked, but the blade bit in. While it was considerably harder to disfigure the stone carving of the man than it was the man himself, Darken would not be content until it lay in ruin as the body interred beneath it.

When at last both corpse and effigy were condemned, Darken stepped back panting. He leaned against the battle axe a little. Sweat was pouring down his chest and over the exposed upper section of his torso, despite the frigid atmosphere of the mausoleum. Oran was destroyed, the anger taken out on the man who would not let him have the Mother Confessor, and the First Seeker himself. A Seeker like the one prophesized to rise up against him. Darken Rahl. When had he ever been so cruel or evil to warrant the Seeker returning? In fact, Darken had always been on the side of the Seeker. He had vowed to help him and protect him should the Seeker arise, the day that he had been officially crowned. On his twenty-first birthday.

Greatest Evil, was that it? Darken Rahl? Greatest Evil - so great that the Seeker had to rise up and kill him. When had he ever been that cruel or wicked? Of course he had his moments (more so since he returned), but did not every ruler of every Kingdom? Evil? If that was Evil, than they had seen nothing. Darken gave a dark and wicked little smirk as the thought came to him. He would show them evil, evil beyond what they had imagined. He threw Rórdán's battle axe to the side; the metal clattered against the stone floor as it scuttered away across the mausoleum.

The sun was just rising over the horizon as Darken returned to the mainstays of the Peoples Palace. Mord'Sith and the odd guards were going about their morning duties; marching and patrolling to keep the King and his people safe.

Egremont was in the Throne Room, sorting through parchments for the King to read and to sign. A list of revised rules for the Kingdom. Nothing much, just the changing of a few minor details. Slightly higher taxes mostly. His back was turned to the door way, his short blonde hair was neatly combed and readied, even though it was the very early morning.

"Egremont!", Darken's voice boomed out through the nearly dead silence of the main hall. Egremont had not been expecting the King to be present for another hour _at least _. Darken was, after all, known to be a bit of a late sleeper (if only because his nightmares kept him awake deep into the night most nights).

Egremont, though surprised, did not jump, or jolt, or yelp. He merely paused in his actions and turned to face the Father Rahl. Egremont was only thirty years of age, and only five years (closer to four), years older than the King himself. Unlike Ansleigh before him, Egremont understood the people of D'Hara in this time. He understood what the people wanted and needed, and knowing this, he could ensure that things went according to plan for the King. He balled his right hand into a fist and laid it over his heart as he bowed his head to Father Rahl. When he rose, he spoke carefully once more, "Father Rahl, I was not expecting to be graced with your presence for another hour."

"Don't start with me, I have not yet slept!", there was no lying; the long and arduous night had left it's sign on the young King. Dark purple circles marred the flesh beneath his blue eyes. His hair was nearly everywhere, from the force of the movements he had put into destroying all signs of Oran in the crypts.

Egremont frowned slightly, but carried on either way. His voice was gentle and light-hearted, even if his face made not change of expression. He knew it was better to be considered to serious all the time, than it was to be considered a jester. "Well my Lord you are more than welcome to go to your chambers and rest for as long as you wish. There is nothing so pressing that it cannot wait for-"

"Oh, but there is something so pressing as that.", his voice was deep, and hard with knowledge.

Egremont frowned a little, his brows furrowing together slightly. He did not like the tone, nor the connotation of Darken's voice. It was clear that something had come up. Something was bothering his charge, his _friend _(if Darken was capable of having friends). "What would you have me do my Lord?"

Darken stepped close, until he was practically nose to nose with the older man. "Your best men, with the best to lead them. They are to go to Brennidon and murder every first born child. Every. Last. One!", Darken was panting slightly. He was angered, still, and he was psychotic, still. But he was tired and he was feeling the strain of his last deeds in his weary body.

Egremont's eyes widened ever so slightly; how could Darken know of the Prophecy? Ansleigh had outright kept it from him, but Egremont had tried to shield the young King from it, at least until he knew it had been averted. He wanted only to protect his Master, as the elder Advisor should have wanted. But he could do no more than nod his head. "Of course Lord Rahl. The Prophecy shall die, tonight. If you would lend your magic to the cause."

Darken turned narrowed eyes towards him, "Of course I will lend my magic to the cause! I am the one the Seeker is going to kill if you have forgotten! Anything to kill him before he kills me!"

Within the hour, two hundred of the best soldiers from the Peoples Peace Army had been gathered. At the helm stood Fraden, the oldest but best trained of all the men. He himself was no more than perhaps five years senior to General Egremont. Fraden turned to Darken before they were sent on their way, "You need to have no fear, Lord Rahl. My men and I will kill every child.", he bowed his head down as he held his helmet beneath his arm.

Darken stood with his arms crossed over his chest once more. He watched the shoulders darkly, just barely moving his eyes to Fraden when the man spoke up. He merely nodded "I will hold you to that."

The soldiers were sent off into the world, as a murder of crows. Crows that could fly across the Boundary, and make their way through the Midlands and reach Brennidon by the mid evening. The Seeker would be killed, the Prophecy averted, any everything set right once more. At least as right as it could be after what Darken Rahl had done.

When the crows had faded from sight over the western horizon, Egremont turned once more to his King. "My Lord, come tomorrow's dawn all will be well."

Darken kept his eyes upon the pale blue sky, watching even though the murder was long out of his sight capabilities. He kept his eyes out the window as he spoke lowly. "You had better pray that it is, Egremont. Else I will hold you responsible for the rising of the Seeker.", he kept his hands clasped behind his back as he turned around. "You should have told me once Ansleigh was dead.", he nodded his head to him, before walking out on him.

The hallways were growing busy, but not busy enough to distract the King from what it was that he wished to do. The people were starting to mill about in his marble passages, but the grounds were still quiet. Children that would normally be playing in the vast terrain were still in bed at this hour.

The cool white mist stayed low over the long emerald grass. Dew drops glistened like tiny little diamonds on every blade and leaf. All the wild flowers were just starting to open their beautiful faces to the morning light. Ahead of Darken was an imposing sight; the Mord'Sith temple, Pyndingar.

Pyndingar was the Mord'Sith Temple in the confines of the Peoples Palace, and was named with the High D'Haran word for torture. The temple was old, older than most D'Harans could fathom. There were rumours, that had been spread for centuries, that the Order of Agiel had been founded by the First Seeker. But under Oran it was said that the Mord'Sith were made to replicate Confessors. Their touch, or at least that of the agiels they carried, would drive a man into loyalty to them. It was true of course. The touch of the agiel was so horrible that it brought the same loyalty as the Confessors' touch. The origins of the Mord'Sith were cloudy, to say the least. Even if the explanation of the Order being founded by Oran Rahl seemed … wrong. But did that bastard have to be everywhere and in everything that Darken Rahl was now in charge of? Was there no escaping the Seeker? Even if the rumours were false?

Darken found himself crossing the threshold of Pyndingar. The stone under his still naked feet was chilled with the early morning mist. He made next to no sound as made his way into the prison-like temple. But as he looked about, he saw no trace of life. There were no Mord'Sith to greet him. He raised a dark brow as he looked about. But he did find one Mord'Sith. Evelyn.

The woman hung by her arms over a grate and stinking pit, a placement that Darken knew only too well himself. Naked but for the black leather undergarments. Her dark hair was down from the braid, but it was worse for the wear. It was gnarled and it was knotted and ragged at the ends. If it weren't for the colour of her flesh, Darken would have assumed the woman was dead. He stepped into the antechamber and braced his feet over the grate. His feet conforming to the bars (though it was uncomfortable) and keeping him balanced. He put two fingers under the unconscious woman's jaw, and raised it so he could look into her face. Evelyn would have groaned if she had a voice left to make the sound with. The once proud Mord'Sith Mistress slowly awoke. Her violet toned eyes were blood shot and rimmed in red blood bruises. The Mord'Sith of Pyndingar had used their agiels even on her face. Not like Darken cared one way other another. He continued to look her over, scrutinizing her state of being. His right nostril was curled up with a small disgusted snarl. His left brow raised as he looked her over.

After a long moment, Evelyn forced herself to speak, "Master." her voice was weak and low. It was husky and laboured. He could hear it in the very intake of her breath. Evelyn was beaten. She was tired. She was shown her place by those she had once held as her inferiors. Evelyn was broken, and beaten into loyalty to the ruling Father Rahl. Her Master.

Darken barely acknowledged her voice. He took his time to trace her cheekbone with his fingertips, and over her lips gently. Evelyn closed her eyes against he feeling. Revelling in the gentle touch of her Master, enjoying it silently against the affect of her _sisters_' agiels. But Darken back handed her suddenly. Evelyn gasped a she was sent back to right with the force of his strike. The chains that held her rattled and shook as she swung back and forth. When she had swung back and forth twice, and was approaching him again, Darken grabbed her collar to forcefully stop her swinging. The weight of her body wanted to carry her backwards again; the Rada'Han choked her. She gasped and coughed a little as she looked back up into her Master's pitiless eyes. "You deserve no less.", Darken released the magic blocking collar and let her swing again as he turned his back on her, and walked out of her torture chamber.

Pyndingar was quiet, and it left Darken even more frustrated. Why was there **never **anyone around when he wanted them? But the thought of a hot bath settled him once again. If there were no Mord'Sith present, than it meant their bathhouse was empty. Not that his own was any less desirable (more, if anything, as his had the luxuries that the Mord'Sith did not keep in theirs), but he already stood inside of Pyndingar Temple. He glanced down, unhooking the tiny hidden clasps of his waistcoat as he made his way into the bathhouse. Passing through stone entryway, the steam from the hot water brushed over his face. He finished the last clasp and let his waistcoat hang open. It framed the second of his tanned torso that it left exposed. He heard the water move in front of him, and immediately lifted his eyes.

The woman in the bath had her back to him completely. Her pallid flesh nearly glowed with the early morning light streaming down through a high window and reflecting off of the surface of the water. It danced in bright light beams over her wet flesh. She was raising herself from the water, her hands moving to her face slightly. Her hair was wet as she had just leaned back to soak its length through. The midnight locks streamed down her back like a waterfall, and reaching her waist struck the water. As soon as the water touched the hair, the length flowed and floated in the warm water like seaweed. On the stone floor of the temple, on the other side of the roman bathing pool, was a puddle-like pile of blood red leathers.

Darken smirked to himself. Maybe all the Mord'Sith not being present was a good thing. He shrugged his waistcoat off and dropped it to the floor. The fabric landed with less sound than a butterfly's sweeping wings. He unbuckled the belt which bore his curved dagger, and removed it as well, dropping it on top of the waistcoat. The pooled fabric stopped the metal from ringing off of the floor. He reached to his right hip and unclasped the hidden and discreet fastening which closed his skirts. "Amberlee.", a smirk was in his voice as he said her name.

The petite framed Mord'Sith, hearing her name spoken by his voice, turned around easily. Her midnight coloured hair moved in a slow circle in the water around her hips. She turned just in time to witness him drop the rest of his clothing to the floor. She couldn't help but smirk a little as she trailed her eyes up from his feet and into his eyes. "Master.", she nodded her head a little to him. "What can I do for you?", she looked towards him as Darken stepped easily down the stone stairs and into the warm bathing pool.

The water was delicious. The warmth relaxed his knotted muscles and worries seemed to be washed away. At least for now. He sank down slowly, holding his hands clasped in front of him. His shoulders lifted a little. The water slowly raised up his form until it consumed his body. Everything below the midpoint of his throat. The tense points in his shoulders loosened with the heat of the water. His eyes were closed as he relished the bath for a long moment. He unhurriedly stood once more, raising himself out of the water again.

"You're tense.", Amberlee's voice was soft, but confident.

Darken did not take the statement as dimwitted, as he would have from another (well, besides the other Mord'Sith). "Of course I am tense, I am the King. Everything falls into my hands.", he turned his blue eyes towards her. Watching her as she moved around him. He turned his head to the right, watching her over his shoulder a moment.

Amberlee brushed his dark hair off of his shoulders and gathered it in one hand gently. The other she lifted and slipped into his locks near the roots. Carefully combing out the small tangles and snarls with her white fingers. In front of her he seemed to drink in a deep breath, and exhale slowly. She smirked a little, and letting go of his tresses she put her hands on his shoulders. With a bit of pressure, she forced him to lean back.

Darken did not mind. He closed his eyes and leaned back so far before he let the Mord'Sith carefully push him down. He lowered himself into the water and tilted his head back further. The warm water encased him. His hair wetted before he stood straight once more, putting his hands to his face and over his nose and mouth as she had done earlier. His hair streamed down his back, over the tops of his shoulders.

Amberlee moved the dark locks out of her way as she placed her hands upon his shoulders once more. Her thumbs were pointed towards his spine as she pressed their pads firmly into the trapezius muscles, before dragging them down to the rhomboids between his shoulder blades. She squeezed his shoulders gently as her thumbs worked in firm circles, slowly. Forcing the knots in his back to work themselves out the rest of the way. When he moaned his contentment, she smiled to herself. Moving closer to him she slipped her hands down over his sides and worked at his lower back. Her breath tender against the back of his neck and shoulder.

Mistress Amberlee smelt of three fragrances. Lavender, neroli, and sandalwood. The smell on her flesh sent a shiver down his spine.

OoO.

Tarralyn had learned of the Prophecy since she had come to her home of Brennidon. Rahl's new advisor, General Egremont, had sent word to them. If they gave up the Seeker to D'Hara, Brennidon would be spared. The town council had rejected the ultimatum, and offered no second course of action. They knew that in their midst was the Seeker, but they would not let it be known to Darken Rahl. The bastard would die at the hands of the child when the time was right. Whenever that time would be.

Tarralyn herself was torn, horribly so. She had done the math herself, repeatedly. The night that Idris had foretold the Prophecy, was the night that she and Darken Rahl himself had conceived the child she now carried. She loved her unborn child more than anything, but she still cared for his father. She was bearing the child that would be the Bringer of Death to his own father. She didn't know if she could accept that. If only Ansleigh had not turned to the Mord'Sith in a plot to harden the young King. If only the elder man had not proved untrustworthy. Had all remained as it should have, she would have married Darken Rahl, and happily done so. She would have been the Queen of D'Hara (though the title meant nothing to her), and their son would have been the Prince. The boy, whom she had already named Richard, would have been born into a normal and loving family. Darken Rahl would have remained the kind-hearted soul he had been when the child was conceived. Richard Rahl would have been the Prince, and the heir of the Kingdom (assuming he was gifted). Even without magic, if he were born ungifted (as long as he was not Pristinely Ungifted), Richard would have grown up with a mother who loved him dearly, and a father who loved him above all else. Instead, Ansleigh had broken a good man into a beast, and made her flee in horror. She knew Darken had no way of knowing she had fled to Brennidon, or that she was even carrying his child. Unless Jayden had spilled her secret to him. She knew he had not to Ansleigh, for she had slipped away unnoticed and unhunted. The breaking that Ansleigh had put Darken through, had made him the very evil force that Richard, as Seeker, was prophesized to defeat. A son to kill his own father. How had it come to this?

Her father, Zeddicus Zu'l Zorander, refused to listen. All he did was argue with her over the matter of the father of her child. He loved his daughter very much, and already loved his grandson, however the reason for the child was enough to make his blood boil in hate. Learning of the Prophecy, he was pleased.

"He will be named Richard Zorander.", the dark haired, middle-aged man smiled gently as he sat beside his daughter. Tarralyn had been confined to her bed for the last month of her pregnancy. And the month was quickly wearing thin. The night was setting in, the sun sinking in the sky.

Tarralyn sighed to herself, glancing away. "Father we've been through this. I am going to name him Richard Rahl. He will have his father's name."

Zeddicus' smile faded and is brows knit in a glare. "I will not have my grandchild associated with that dynasty!"

"But he's a Rahl, father! Perhaps if he knows who he is, knows his father, he won't rise against-"

Zedd's eye twitched violently. He stood up angrily. His tall thin frame towered over his daughter in her bed. "I will not have it! Prophecy must be answered. Prophecy cannot be averted, dear one! Darken Rahl is a monster, the whole family are monsters!"

"Than this child is a monster, father!"

"No, Tarralyn! This child is the means to an end of a reign of terror. And with him being the very child of the tyrant, he can rule. He can been a good and kind king in place of the despot that spawned him. No Tarralyn. Richard will be a force for good, even though his father is a force for evil."

Tarralyn wrapped her arms gently around her heavily pregnant belly. She hugged her child while she thought of his father, nearly three thousand miles away. She kept her eyes away from her father's. she did not want to argue with him again. She loved him as deeply as any child loved their father. All she wanted was to give Richard that same chance. To love his father. And maybe if Darken was aware that it was his son that was Prophesized to kill him, he would be kind. Perhaps he would take Richard in. and raise him in his light. But Zeddicus just did not see that side of it.

She gazed out of the window in her room. The sun was dipping low now, the horizon brilliantly aglow with orange and pink hues while the sky above was deepening into midnight velvet. A few stars were starting to twinkle. But her brows furrowed as she looked out across the horizon. There was a flock of black birds heading towards them from the east. A murder of crows. It was an odd sight, but not exceptional.

If only she had known how truly exceptional that murder had been.

Women ran screaming to shield their children. Two hundred crows had landed in the town square of the village of Brennidon. There they had changed, transformed, from bird into weapon laden D'Haran soldiers. The assassins sent by Darken Rahl. The men ran rampant in the streets. They infiltrated every house, and within killed every first born child. Even the daughters. Darken Rahl had known enough that a Seeker could be male or female, and had equated such a chance. No firstborn child was to be left alive, despite its gender.

Blood curdling screams raced through the town as mothers wept over their fallen children. Children soaked in their own blood. Fathers, pallid with shock and horror attempted to pacify their hysterical wives. Others sought revenge for their fallen children. The men were fought back by better trained soldiers. The assassins sent were the very best of the best. The elite amongst Rahl's ranks. The D'Haran Lord had left nothing to chance. The Seeker would die that evening.

Those were not the only blood curdling screams. In the pandemonium, Tarralyn went into labour. Her father managed to bar the officers from entering their home, by turning them away at the door with a simple tall tale. "What screams? Oh! Those screams. Well you see my good sirs, my daughter is an eccentric. Born that way I'm afraid. To keep her from killing, again, I keep her strapped down to her bed. She doesn't like it, but it's all that can be done I'm afraid." At first the men glared at him, looking him up and down, but Zedd met their eyes with a cool calmness. And these men were no Confessors. They could not see untruth in a convincing deceiver. And so they turned away.

In the anarchy, Tarralyn gave birth to a baby boy. Richard Zorander, Richard Rahl, whatever he was to be called, he was a healthy baby boy. The little glowing blue light at her side chirped happily and flew up beside the baby boy held in Tarralyn's tired arms. It looked the baby boy over, and flew closer, brushing against the baby's podgy cheek. The Night Wisp gave him a gentle kiss. A blessing.

Zeddicus smiled down upon his daughter sadly. He knew it was not safe to keep the baby here, and yet he knew that Tarralyn needed time to rest and to heal from the birth. He frowned a little.

Tarralyn understood all too well. She gazed down at her baby, to had his father's colouring: darkish hair that also verged on dark blonde (though it was wispy, the blonde could only come from the Rahl line as both she, her mother, and her father were all dark), icy blue eyes (her own were a different shade and so were her father's), and a natural tan to his flesh. He was his father's son, even if her father did not want to see it. She smiled sadly as she saw the little blue light lay a kiss over the boy's cheek, and briefly turn pink with love. She wanted to keep holding Richard, but she knew that sooner or later the assassins would return to the one house that they had no checked. She whispered softly down at the little boy, "You're so beautiful, my darling. My Richard.". Richard could only stare back at her with the wide eyes of a child. Tarralyn took a deep breath and shifted the baby in her arms. Moving him away from her warm breast. She looked back up to her father.

Zedd frowned, but carefully took the boy into his arms. He knew what was coming, but he still hated it. Tears sparkled behind his eyes. He knew in order to save one, he might have to sacrifice the other. And it was a weight that he could not bare. "Tarralyn-",but the young woman interrupted him.

"Take Ghazi, he will keep you and Richard safe. I know what you would say father, that your magic is enough to protect the both of you, but please listen just once. Take Ghazi, he is loyal and he already loves my child. He will protect you.", she turned her eyes to the little ball of light again. "Right Ghazi?"

The Night Wisp chirped sadly, but agreed. He flew back into the little bottle in which Tarralyn and had carried him through the Midlands after her escape from D'Hara.

Tarralyn lifted the chain from around her white neck, and handed it gently over to her father. "Be safe."

Zedd nodded, "and you child. I will take Richard through Kings' Port Pass, and spare Ghazi the magic that it will take to break through my own. I will take him into Hartland and make us a home there. When you are well-"

"When I am well again father I will join you. I promise."

"Than in that case, it is goodbye…at least for now.", Zedd held the baby against his chest as he leaned down and kissed her sweaty forehead gently. When he pulled back from her, he, the baby, and the Night Wisp vanished into thin air. Invisibility to allow them to slip from the town unnoticed.

When her child, her father, and her Night Wisp companion had long gone, Tarralyn sighed. She was exhausted, but rest eluded her. She had fought for the last month to show her father Darken Rahl's goodness. His kindness. To tell the Wizard of her lover's devotion to his people. And yet, in on single night, he had turned the Midlands, and her father against him.

Darken Rahl was a great evil, that needed to be stopped.


	19. Chapter Eighteen: Amberlee

**A****uthor's Note: **I apologize for how long this chapter has taken to post. I've been hit with major writer's block for this chapter… even thought it was planned out.

**Disclaimer: **See previous Chapters

_**Chapter Eighteen: **_**Amberlee**

They say it's good luck for the soul if it rains on the day of the funeral, just the same as it's good luck when it rains on one's wedding day. Darken could not attest to the second statement, as he had never been married, nor did he plan on ever marrying. But, he could show the point of the second to be true.

It was not raining. The sky was cold and gray, but the rain did not come. The moisture hung heavily in the atmosphere; the air was cold with the coming winter. Only dim and dark sunlight filtered down meagerly through the monstrous black clouds to shine down on the funeral of Jayden Wright. The son of Corey and Avalyn Wright. Nephew of the Mord'Sith Mistress Evelyn. Adoptive child of Darken Rahl, and Prince of D'Hara.

The effigy had been carved by Master Masons in the day and a half since the boy's death. They had been worked to their limits, and yet they had done their task well. The boy was beautifully represented in a state of sleep. Carved from white marble, his form lay under a funerary cloth; his head supported by a grand pillow of stone. His marble locks were laid out around his head; his hands were pressed in holy palmer's kiss beneath the folds of the stone shroud. His eyes were closed in death's sleep and laid around him were red roses.

The pale sunlight filtered down through the storm clouds and illuminated the sarcophagus as it laid temporarily in one of the royal gardens. The greenery was dull, and dying. It's fading carcass matched the somber tone of the morning.

Beneath the stone cover, the desecrated body of the blond and once glowing boy lay in death. His hands folded over his chest. The royal embalmers had done their best to conceal the horror done to the corpse by his own adoptive father; their Master. Their King. The pale white flesh had been sewn shut over his breast and hidden under a blood red velvet tunic. His white hands were folded over his breast to further hide any trace of the missing heart. His blond hair covered the gaping hole in the back of his skull, where the brain had been removed. He was not meant to be seen in death. At least not until a hundred years had passed and he was nothing more than cordwood. When the missing organs, all of them, were unnoticeable.

Darken Rahl was dressed entirely in black velvet. His waistcoat laced together in the back, much like a corset; the front seam closed with hidden hooks and eyes. His overskirts were long and made of the same lightweight black velvet. The four panels of his skirts were hemmed and trimmed with three inches of silver and black floral silk brocade; it shimmered in the pallid and cold sunlight. The underskirts of his robes were several separated layers of black silk. In the cool wintry breeze, they fluttered and danced about his black booted feet, like dark spirits. The waistcoat was trimmed and decorated with silver cording, arranged into floral patters up over his abdomen and on his chest. His overcoat was black velvet with tapered sleeves, ending in points attached to silver rings on his middle fingers. They were decorated with the same silver cording as his waistcoat. The long black train of the coat was laid out elegantly behind him. His dark hair was gathered back and French braided from just beyond his widow's peak and down the back of his head. At the end of his braid, dancing around between his upper shoulder blades, was a small white rose bloom. Open and facing out, it brought beauty and a break to the dull funerary black wear.

He tilted his jaw up, turning his eyes towards the dark sky. They say it's good luck for the soul if it rains on the day of the funeral, but it was clear that the rain was not going to fall. The soul of Jayden was already wherever it was going to rest for eternity. It's not that for others this expression would not ring true, but not for Jayden. Jayden had been cursed the moment he swore he would die for this King. In truth, he was cursed the day that Avalyn decided to bring her son to the Peoples Palace for help. Fate was sealed. The boy was the property of the Keeper now. He was as soon as his soul was called back to Darken Rahl in the form of the Shinga.

If anything, the storm clouds were breaking. More sunlight was pouring down. Darken kept his eyes pointed towards the sky as Prophet Augustus read the prayers for the boy. Prayers spoken in High D'Haran. Darken briefly wondered if the light pouring in from the golden sun was that of Jayden's everlasting wandering in the Underworld, or if it was the glow of the Creator, so that the boy may always bask in her light. He couldn't help but notice that the light fell over all present at the burial, all but he himself. The pale light did not touch Darken or the black raiment that he wore. And yet it fell over the woman at his side.

Mistress Amberlee stood at his left side. Her shoulders were pulled back, her spine straight as she stood at perfect attention. Her blood leathers were replaced with black leather, just as tight as any other set, but the buckles of the collar, corset, belt, and holster for her agiel were made of silver. Her collar, corset, and belt were embossed with floral patterns. The leather raised to show the pattern; it was distinct in the pale sunlight. Her midnight black hair was brought harshly back from her face and braided down her back. It brushed against her leather clad backside. She glanced slightly towards her Master, who was out of the sunlight. Her dark brows knit and she looked up towards the sky. Above them was a break in the clouds, the sunlight was golden pouring through. She could see the break, it was dim enough that it brought her eyes no pain. But she saw the beam, filtering down and shining over herself, did not lay a single golden finger over the man that stood three inches from her. She didn't like it, she felt a heaviness in her heart when she bore witness to it. A heaviness that she had not felt since she saw Evelyn break her mother. She turned her eyes away and back towards the sarcophagus. She kept her eyes forward, even as her Master bowed his head in prayer with the rest of the audience. Even if he didn't truthfully put any of his heart into it. Evelyn smirked a little, casting her eyes towards to the right. She raked her gaze over him, up and down for a long moment as he prayed. Her hands were at her side, the right moved discreetly. Amberlee laid her black leather gloved hand over his black velvet covered backside.

Darken's eyes snapped open as he stopped praying to the Creator. They turned to the left, looking towards her, though he did not raise his face. He met the Mord'Sith's tiny little smirk. It danced over her crimson painted lips.

Amberlee had to smirk. She knew that he had chosen her as his favourite Mord'Sith. This meant that she was the power behind him when he needed it. It meant that she was as close to a Queen as Darken Rahl would ever come to. It meant that she was his personal guard, which required her to be with him at all times. It was why she was permitted to be at the funeral of the boy while the other Mord'Sith were kept away. She knew this also meant that she was the one he would take to his bed when he desired company. It also meant that should she wish for such _company_ herself, she was allowed to go to him. Only him.

Darken returned her smirk with a small, half-mouthed, smile of his own. But before other should notice the lack of his voice amongst the prayer, he closed his eyes and continued on with the words to wish Jayden's soul onto the Halls of Eternal Peace. But all too soon was his concentration broken once more. This time it wasn't due to the woman standing to his left.

Behind him, through the dying garden, Darken could hear footsteps approaching him. He sighed. He lifted his head from prayer and readied his ear for whatever news he was about to receive.

All too quickly Egremont's voice whispered into his ear. The man's breath was warm against his flesh. "My Lord, the assassins have returned."

His interest was piqued; Darken straightened his back as he listened. He wanted to know the fate of the First Born.

"All the First Born children, male and female, have been slaughtered in Brennidon, your Majesty."

The little half-mouth smile returned, with a wicked twist. It turned into a half-mouthed grin, baring his white teeth. "That is good news indeed…"

Jayden was laid to rest in the Crypt of the Line of Rahl that came before Panis, and after Balthazar. He was buried close to Darken's grandfather, as there alone was space left. Darken, years before (even as a child), had ordered that a new tomb be created for his father, Panis Rahl. That tomb would hold only his deceased predecessor. Another had been built which would house his own corpse once he died (if he died), but Jayden was not royalty, or any true relation to Darken Rahl, and therefore did not deserve such honours. At least not in the mind of the _new _Darken Rahl.

He was a cold man, that was for sure. The servants had to carry the stone sarcophagus from the garden and down into the old Crypt. They had to move it without the use of magic, as their King had outlawed it's use for all but himself and his Mord'Sith. It took them an eternity. They had to be careful; they knew if they were to lose even a small chip of the marble effigy, that they would have their heads removed, and the King himself would put them on pikes at the gates of the Peoples Palace. Eventually the sarcophagus was put into place in the dark, cold, forgotten crypt. He would lay there, forgotten, for all eternity.

Eternity was passing quickly, as Darken soon learned.

By the time the winter was in full force, Amberlee never left his side. She sat beside him on the Queen's throne, always dressed in white leathers. Justine stood to his left side, dressed in the blood leathers, in order to protect him as she was assigned. Nothing had changed between herself and her Master, or her and Amberlee. They were still a tight force of three when the need arose. But, Justine couldn't deny that she was remotely jealous of the petite Mord'Sith Mistress. As long as the King had his favourite, he would not go to the other _sisters _for pleasurable company. Mistress Jessica stood to the right of Amberlee as she sat at her Master's right hand side. The redheaded Mord'Sith was assigned to protect _the queen _at all costs.

Especially now.

_"Master?", Amberlee's voice, normally harsh or at the very least confident, was wavering slightly. She wasn't sure what would happen to her for saying this, but she knew he would find out eventually, even if she did not inform him. _

_ Darken turned towards her, he had been standing at the window, looking out upon the moonlit Azrith Plains. Watching as the stars twinkled to life and glittered down far below on the snow covered plains. He heard the tremble in her voice, and his brows furrow minutely. He didn't like that sound. She had _never _in all of her time with him, even during his breaking, ever held that quiver. His answer came slow and warily, "What is it Amberlee?", he tilted his head to the right as he stared her down. He walked slowly and quietly towards her._

_ Amberlee's harlequin green eyes had been cast upon the floor. They flashed back and forth worriedly. She swallowed a little, knowing the response from her Master could potentially end her life. But again, she needed to let the facts be known. She swallowed once more, and took a deep breath, raising her green eyes to match his icy blues. "Master-"_

_ "If you are going to tell me something important, at least use my given name.", his voice was hard, yet she could detect a slight playful twinge behind his words. He didn't exactly know how to be full of mirth, and therefore the easiest alternative was to frighten whoever he was speaking with. _

_ She looked up a little surprised, but Amberlee nodded her head. "Of course, Darken.", she didn't like it. She didn't like the sound of it on her tongue or the feel of it on her lips. His name, Darken, was both unacceptable for a Mord'Sith, a _servant_ to refer to him with, and was entirely unusual. She had to wonder why a father, or mother, would ever name their child Darken. Did they not realize that they had sealed their son's fate with it? Did they not realize it was utterly forebodingly evil? That the child would have no choice but to grow into an unbalanced and wicked adulthood? She shook her head, those thoughts were not the ones that she needed to voice. "Darken", she started once again as she turned her irises to his. "I was with Kora today. The healers tell me I am… with child.", she swallowed loudly after the last word poured from her lips. She knew this would be Darken's first child._

_ Darken stared at her for a long moment. His eyes slightly opened beyond their normal state, but he never blinked. He just gazed at her unnervingly. _

_ Amberlee could feel the sweat starting to build on her brow. Why wouldn't he say something? Anything! Why would he not voice what it was that he was feeling? It was the waiting that made her all the more wary. As a Mord'Sith she was trained to take anything, everything, but only physically. She had been taught to show no emotion, but just because she did not show them, did not mean she did not feel them. She still worried that he would be displeased with her. And if the King were displeased, it surely meant the death of that which gave him such displeasure. _

_ Finally his eyes turned down. Looking down upon her belly. And a smile broke his face in two. Finally. Amberlee could feel and hear the exhale of relief she released. The King unfolded his arms and lowered his right hand. He laid his palm flat upon her slightly swollen belly, through her leathers. He moved his hand a little, and ran his thumb gently the swell of her lower abdomen. "My child…"_

_ The Mord'Sith had to smile slightly, her breast filling with relief. She nodded her head slightly, "Yes Father Rahl.", she lifted a gloved hand and put it against his cheek gently. Brushing back the wisps of dark hair from his eyes. She lifted her jaw, regaining her former confidence, and kissed his forehead tenderly. _

_ Darken reached down, grabbing the buckles of her red leather corset. Amberlee jolted a little, briefly panicking. But, his fingers quickly unbuckled the leather straps and tore the corset from her. He dropped the rigid leather girdle to the marble floor. Amberlee breathed a slight sigh of relief. His steely blue eyes rose and met hers once again. "You're not to wear that corset until after the child is born. I refuse to let you."_

_ Amberlee's brows knit a little. She knew that it would not do the child well to wear it, but it was still part of her station. She nodded gently. "Yes Master."_

OoO.

It had been three months since the massacre in Brennidon. Life, though it would never be the same, was slowly returning to a more usual pace. Life itself had to go on, even though the children had been lost.

Tarralyn, in her heart, felt a deep sorrow and guilt that her child had lived and the others had not. But, she knew that if her child had not survived the night, the streets of Brennidon had run red with the blood of innocent children for nothing. She was caught in a dance of deception and pain. A dance she had to keep dancing for the rest of her time in Brennidon, and likely for the remainder of her life. Until her long years were utterly spent.

Darken Rahl, her father's child and more importantly the King of D'Hara, had shown his true colours. He was not as she had thought him to be. He was not the kind and gentle man that had nursed her back to health and called her back from the gates of the Underworld with the Breath of Life like she had thought. No. Darken was quite clearly the monster that her father had always told her that he and his father were. D'Hara was a land in which she was not ever to venture. She should have listened. But, then the Seeker would never have been born, right?

But then without her presence, and the Seeker's birth, there would have never been a need for the Seeker. Tarralyn knew, deep in her heart, that there were secrets darker than her own. She knew that she could not fully believe that Darken Rahl had been that monster, not for all of his life. If he had been, he had been utterly so good at disguising himself as a temperate and compassionate man. It gnawed at her as she thought it over. She hated him for what he had done to Brennidon. There was never a doubt in her mind about that. She hated him for the murder of so many children. Yet, she knew that that would never have been his way in the past.

Oh, if only the past could have lived. If the ways of the King in the past were the ways of the King now, she would have still been in the Peoples Palace. And Richard would know his father. Now the boy would have to be raised by his mother and his grandfather. A grandfather who now, more than ever, was not willing to listen to any whispers that a trace of goodness lived within the King of D'Hara; his grandson's father.

Three months had gone by since the blood bath of Brennidon, since Tarralyn had given birth in the anarchy. Since she had last seen her baby boy and her father. She was healing well, though she had been ill for a time. She knew that her strength was still not as sound as it had been before she reached the last month of her pregnancy, but it was time to leave. It was time to find her father and son again. Time to start a new life, and forget the King she had loved. Forget him until the time came that Richard would rise against the Tide of Evil and vanquish Darken Rahl. When Richard Rahl would take the throne of D'Hara and all would be well again.

The chestnut mare would do well enough. She, amongst the other mounts of the village, would not be missed. The presence of one missing horse would not rise questions, especially not a chestnut mare. There were many horses that would have raised the alarm; the war horses of the highest ranking guards, the appaloosa, the shire horse, but not the little mare.

Tarralyn stood with the beast, carefully stroking between her nostrils. "Shh… it's going to be alright Liridona. We're going to get away from here, and you'll have a wonderful life as a pasture horse.", her voice was quiet in the darkness. The horse snorted slightly, and shook her head. Her dark mane swished out a little. Tarralyn stroked the beast's muzzle once more, before she tightened the saddle a touch further. She mounted quickly and took the reins into her white hands.

The way was long and dark. The road was shadowed, and would take her at least a week to make it through the Boundary from Brennidon, and at least another three days after that before she made it to Hartland.

When she reached Hartland, finally, she was tired. But, nothing pleased her more than to see the little house sitting on Blackthorn Hill. She had been given directions by the local villagers of Hartland (though Blackthorn Hill was out of town by roughly a league), and had been lead through the forest by a young boy. He had left her roughly a quarter mile back, having to return to his mother. The house was small, and surrounded by a familiar garden; full of herbs and other green and growing things. It was a recognizable vision; her father had made for himself a garden here just as he had had behind their home in Brennidon. Even the house was similar, and yet this house, alone on the hill, seemed more like home than the Brennidon house ever had. But, nothing was going to be like home as the Wizard's Keep had been in Aydindril when she was little. When her mother, Erilyn, was still alive and with them. The only thing that had come close, was the Peoples Palace in D'Hara

But now was not time for that. Now was time to rest and return to her father and her son.

Tarralyn let Liridona trot up the trail leading up the hill, before she carefully dismounted. She stood, tiredly and patted the mare on the nose before she moved to remove the riding tact that the horse had been wearing for so long.

The door of the house opened off to the side of her, and her father, with his long dark hair came out from the house. A bright smile was on the middle-aged man's face, his blue eyes were bright. "Tarralyn! My girl!", he moved at a quick, long stridden, pace with his arms open wide. Tarralyn looked over her shoulder and smiled happily, "Papa!", before she knew it, she was enveloped in the thin arms of her father, and hugged tight against his breast. She smiled, and buried her face into the soft brown textile of his robes. She could only sigh in relief, happy to be home and relaxed once more. Safe with her father, and there to care for her son once again.

Zedd rubbed her back as he hugged her for a long moment, before he carefully pulled back away from her. He was beaming as he looked her up and down. "You look wonderful, dear child!"

Tarralyn had to half laugh. She was still struggling to loose the baby weight from her pregnancy, and she was dirty and tired from traveling. Yet, she smiled a little. "Thank you Papa.", but her smile faded a little as her brows furrowed. "How's Richard?"

Once again the older man's blue eyes lit up. "He's wonderful. He's been such a good little boy… though he has a set of lungs on him louder than his mother ever had.", he smirked a little and ruffled her hair lovingly. He put his arm around her and guided her in towards the house once Liridona had had the riding tact removed from her back and her mouth. The mare was free to roam about and nibble at the long green grasses growing around the little house that Zedd had made for himself, his daughter, and his grandson. Zedd lead Tarralyn inside, showing her to the table. The house was not much, but it was enough to house the small family. At least for the time being. Her eyes brightened when she saw her baby boy, swaddled in warm blankets, and resting in a basket on the table.

"Richard!", she couldn't contain her excitement, though she kept her voice quiet. She reached down and carefully picked up the baby. The child babbled a little, just a little, but smiled when he recognized her touch. She pulled her babe close to her breast and cuddled him lovingly. Glad to hold onto a piece of what she had left behind.

Richard had grown since she saw him last, naturally. His hair was getting a little longer, and thicker. It was a dirty dark blond. The only blonde in his genes had clearly come from his D'Haran father (even if Darken himself bore colouring from his mother's side of the family). His eyes were the same sapphire blue that came from her family, but had a steely, flinty edge to them. She knew she would always see his father in him. A mirror to the King of D'Hara, even if the boy grew up to look like her and her father.

Even if Zedd had found a young widower for her to marry and raise the child with.

OoO.

It was three in the morning when the screams of pain ripped through the Peoples Palace.

Amberlee had been having trouble sleeping. She lay, vulnerable, beside her King in his bed. Since she was five months pregnant she had been unable to wear her leathers, and had been given a blood red velvet gowns with a leather bust sewn in (for her familiarity). The skirts were long and wide. Flowing to give room to her ever expanding belly. The velvet dress lay out about her, and partially over the man that slept on his side next to her.

Darken lay on his left side, his knees brought up a little . He lay facing the woman laying on her back beside him. He was calm, and peaceful, but Amberlee was not. All night she had been having trouble sleeping. Her back was aching from carrying the weight of the baby she had growing inside of her. Until she felt the agonizing pain rip through her. Worse than any of the Mord'Sith training she had ever undergone. She couldn't contain the scream that poured out from her lungs.

The young King jolted, his blue eyes widening as he heard her screaming. He sat up and looked her over, seeing her holding her swollen belly. He knew the birth was due within the next week or two, but he was still caught off guard. Darken quickly got up from the bed and moved around to her side. He looked her over quickly and picked her up as best he could. Lifting her up from his bed in bridal fashion. He carried her out of the room quickly, passing through the white marble moonlit halls as swiftly as he possibly could. Carrying the cringing and groaning Mord'Sith Mistress towards the Healing Wing.

Kora met him at the doorway, taking the woman from his arms before pushing him back from the entrance. Her hand was against his bare breast. Darken's brows furrowed and he moved to bark the order to let him through, but she held her hand up as Amberlee was taken by another healer. "I am sorry my Lord, but men are not allowed into the Houses of Healing when a woman is giving birth."

"But it's my child!", he growled deeply, his eyes flashing dangerously.

Kora tended to block his expression from her mind. "Be that as it may, and King or not, no man is allowed in until the child has been birthed."

Darken was left standing there, shocked, as the door was closed in his face. He paced back and forth thinking. The only thing left was to go back to bed for some time. He knew that her labour could last for days, or it could be mere hours.

It was just after noon when the last scream came from the Healing Wing.

Amberlee, though trained to take all sorts of physical pain without reacting, could not take the agony of childbirth. She collapsed back against the bed and lay painting. She was soaked with sweat, it shimmered all over her pale flesh.

Kora, holding the swaddled baby in her arms gently, turned towards one of the lesser ranking Healers. "Get Father Rahl. He can see his child now."

The woman nodded her blonde head, and bowed as she headed from the doors to find the King. She didn't have far to go. Outside of the door and across the hall, Darken Rahl was pacing once again. His red velvet skirt's train was drawn out behind him, pulling slowly despite his quick pace. She watched him for a moment before clearing her throat. "Father Rahl?"

His head immediately snapped up as she called out his name. he turned to her and waited with baited breath.

"You can enter now… Mistress Amberlee has given birth."

"Is she alive?", he had to ask tentatively, knowing that many women died during childbirth. He was truthfully worried that the same had befallen his favourite Mord'Sith.

The Healer nodded, "Yes Father Rahl. She is just resting. You can come and see your son now."

His eyes widened and he perked up slightly. A son? She gave birth to a boy? Wonderful! An heir! He nodded and quickly looked himself over. Good. He wasn't _too _frazzled. When he entered the room, Amberlee was asleep on the cot, and Kora hovered over her, holding the baby boy. He turned his steely blue eyes upon the young Healing woman, and bowed his head to her. She bowed in response, and carefully handed his child over to him. Amberlee stirred on the cot as Darken brought the child against his breast and carefully sat on the edge of the bed beside her. He was smiling brightly down at the little boy.

The boy was beautiful. He was blond, as all of the Rahl Bloodline beyond Darken and Oran three thousand years before. His eyes were blue. He was beautiful, just as all children. Amberlee was weak, and her voice soft. "He looks just like his father, except for his gold hair.", she wore a drained smile as she looked between her newborn, and her King, the boy's father.

Darken smiled as he turned to look at her, "Does he?", he looked down at the boy again gently. The baby was looking up at him with wide blue eyes, and smiling with the bright and toothless grin of young children. He pulled one arm out of the blanket that swaddled him and waved it about as he giggled a little looking up as his father. He reached up, as he was held against the King's heart, and gripped at his father's arrogant nose. Darken's eyes widened, and crossed as he looked down at the boy surprised. Kora, and the woman that had called their King into the Houses of Healing, held their breath. But Darken smiled and laughed lightly, letting the boy grip at his nose. He shifted the little bundle in his strong arms gently, and brought him closer to the warm of his breast as he nuzzled his nose against the boy's hand and eventually his cheek. The baby giggled and cooed once again as he settled against his father's warmth. Darken, without looking away from the boy, spoke to the mother. "What should we name him?"

Amberlee, slightly disoriented still from the birth, thought for a long moment. But, she finally came to it. "I like the name Walter.", she turned to look up at the King. Her harlequin green eyes sparkling a little. "It was my father's name."

Darken looked down at her finally, looking her face over for moment. He saw the twinge of love in her eyes as she said the name, and beamed softly. "Than Walter it is.", his gently smile turned to a grin once more as he cuddle his son, Walter, closer to his warm person again. He hugged him as firmly as he could without hurting the small boy. But, as he concentrated, it hit him. He pulled away from the child, holding Walter now below his breast. His bright and happy expression had all but faded.

Amberlee's brows knit. She was worried by his sudden change of expression and change in his being. "What's wrong? Master?"

Darken didn't know how to break the news to the tired mother. His eyes flashed back and forth. But, it had to be known. "He's Ungifted."

The colour fully drained from Amberlee's already pale face. Her midnight hair made her flesh all the whiter with the contrast. She was fighting to find her voice. "Wha…what?", her heartbeat had started to race once more.

He turned his eyes back to her, his voice hardened. She should have known what she was carrying, and the Healers should have told him. "He. Is. Un. Gifted! He has no magic to speak of, none of the blood magic of the Rahl line!"

Amberlee was terrified for her child. The rushing hormones from her pregnancy and from the birth were rising her adrenaline. "What… what… what are you going to do?"

Darken glanced down at the baby boy. The boy was still looking up at him and reaching up for him. Walter had freed both hands from the swaddling blanket, and was trying to grip for his father in any way that he could. Darken closed his eyes. He had been so happy mere moments before to hold his child. His son. Despite appearances, this did hurt him more than he was going to let her know. He spoke before he opened his steely eyes. "Be thankful he is not Pristinely Ungifted. Magic can still affect him, and still be used by him. But he has no han of his own. If he were Pristinely Ungifted than I would have to drive my dagger into his heart."

Amberlee's heart had leapt into her throat. She was afraid to hear what was coming next.

"As it stands, he is Ungifted. He is no heir to me as only a gifted male Rahl child can rule D'Hara. So he will be sent to the Dragon Corp to be trained as a soldier."

Amberlee knew it was coming. It was the same for all the male children that any Mord'Sith gave birth to, no matter the father. She had only prayed that perhaps Darken would have treated his own child differently. But she could see that he would do no such thing. Her heart sank in her breast. She had tried to bear for him an heir, to raise with him (or at least take some part in the childhood of her son) as a real family.

But Darken continued. "You have disgraced yourself, Mord'Sith. You have dishonoured me by bearing a useless child, whom I cannot slaughter for being Pristinely Ungifted. You have given birth to an abomination that has no place amongst the gifted of the Palace, or the Pristinely Ungifted dead. For this you will be punished."

Amberlee closed her eyes. She could think of no greater punishment than having her child sent away to be trained from the time of his birth to be a soldier for his father, the King. A child that would never even be known by the people. A child that would never know who his father, or his mother, was. She waited with a baited breath to hear what the punishment would be.

"You are here by demoted from your place at my side. You are now no better than you _Sisters_. You will follow my orders as you have always, but you will have no ranking higher than that of Justine."

Amberlee squeezed her eyes together tighter. He was sending her away from his side for something she could not have controlled. Something that he blamed her for, even if it was his fault for not giving her a Gifted child. She drew a deep breath, still aching and exhausted from the birth of Walter. "I know Master. I deserve my punishment."

"Good. Than you understand.", Darken stood once more, with Walter still in his arms. He pushed the baby boy into Kora's arms. The woman stumbled slightly but took the boy and cuddled him to her breast. She had heard what the King had told to his Mord'Sith, but could not let that be known. Darken looked back at her, over his shoulder as he paused his exit from the room. "He is to be sent to the Dragon Corp for training. And the people are not to know that he lived. As far as they are concerned, he was stillborn, and buried without a name. Do you understand me?"

Kora looked up from the little boy's face and nodded. Her throat was tight, unable to believe that any man could do that to his own flesh and blood. "Yes, Father Rahl.", she bowed her head in respect once more.

Darken merely nodded his head curtly, before leaving the Healing Wing once again.

Amberlee, after she had been given time to heal (less for her than another woman would have been given, seeing as she was Mord'Sith.), was disgraced. Falling back into her duties as the rest of her _Sisters _quietly. She was humiliated, but the others kept their snide comments and snaky tones to themselves. It did them no good to insult the Mord'Sith Mistress, as she continued to retain a rank that was second only to Darken Rahl himself (she was once again on equal terms with Justine).

Months passed, and she was kept away from the King, only to watch him from afar. No matter how much she missed his company. No matter how much she missed the attention he had showered upon her.

Until one day.

Like most days of the mid to late fall, Darken Rahl could be found (when not under the pressure of affairs of state that is), in the training grounds. Feardorcha, with the red leather riding tact of the Mord'Sith, bore his Master. The massive black warhorse pranced with the King on his back, as the weather remained strangely mild for the time of the year it was. The year had been better than one before, and the one before that. The rains had not made for a poor growing season, nor had the people been subjected to a drought. The growing season, now that he was nearly in his twenty sixth year, had finally been as excellent as it had been in his twenty third year.

Like most days, Darken merely practised his horseback weaponry skills, not because he needed to, but because he had nothing better to do.

But, as things are want to do, there are things that sometimes… go amiss.

When it came down to it, Darken's life was saved by a common foot soldier that had been sent to the training ground to increase his skills. Darken was flustered, and humiliated by this fact. He did not want any one finding out, not Egremont, not the people of the Kingdom, no one. In return for his silence, Wilhelm was given his choice of the Mord'Sith for the night. A reward.

Wilhelm chose Amberlee. And for the one night with the soldier, she found herself pregnant once more.

Like the day of Walter's birth, no man was allowed into the Healing Wing. It was after the sunset, during the twilight hour that the last scream came from the Mord'Sith Mistress.

Amberlee, though trained to take all sorts of physical pain without reacting, could not take the agony of childbirth. She collapsed back against the bed, and stopped moving. Her flesh lost all colour. She was turning pallid and started to go cold. Her body ruined by the hard labour. She lay dead.

Kora held the baby girl swaddled in her arms, turning again to one of her subordinates. "Find Father Rahl. Tell him Mistress Amberlee did not survive."

The Healer, Riana, nodded her head a little. "Yes Mistress.", she held her white skirts in her hands as she lifted them away from her feet. Swiftly leaving the Healing Wing and meandering through the white marble halls of the Peoples Palace. Seeking out the throne room of Darken Rahl, to give him the news that he needed to be told.

Darken Rahl was sitting in the throne room, reading by the light of a hundred lit candles. His leg was hooked and draped over the other under his skirts. It was mid august now, and it was warm weather all around. His hair was bound back with a braid to keep it off of the back of his neck; he wore pale silvery-blue robes made of silks. The book was balanced on his thighs gently as he uninterestedly turned the pages.

Riana watched him for a moment before she drew her courage. She stepped into the light of the candles he had burning. "Father Rahl?"

He did not bother to look up, "What is it, Riana?", he knew her by the sound of her voice. He had encountered her once or so before in the Palace.

Riana was taken aback that he knew her, but she shook her head. "My Lord… Mistress Amberlee…"

He looked up slowly, and raised a brow. "What about her?", he wasn't completely disinterested, but he was curious to see what she was going to say.

"My Lord… she died in childbirth."

His blue eyes widened, trying to take in what had just been said to him. "Pardon?"

"She died, my Lord. I am sorry."

But he growled deeply, "Don't you tell me you're sorry!", he slammed the leather bound tome closed angrily, before throwing it to the side of the throne. It scuttered across the floor before it came to rest dejected near the fireplace. Darken had raised himself up out of the throne, and in an instant was at her side. "Move."

Riana was taken aback, but she stepped out of his path when he ordered it. Afraid that he would violently move her from his way if she did not step aside for him. She felt the slight breeze of the moving air as he marched passed her.

When Darken entered the Healing Wing, what he saw disturbed him. Amberlee, once his favourite of the Mord'Sith, the woman that had birthed him a child the year before. The woman that he had in fact cared for, just a little, lay pallid in death. Her skin was cooling, she was trailing further and further away from him. And it was all his fault. Had he not punished her for birthing an Ungifted child, and removed her from his favourites, she would not have been there for Wilhelm to choose. And if she had not been in the mass of Mord'Sith from which he could choose from, she would not have become pregnant once again. If she had not become pregnant, she would never have died in the birth. If he had only forgiven her.

Kora stood the side, holding the swaddled baby. Amberlee had birthed a little girl. The blonde little daughter of foot soldier Wilhelm. She was a pretty little girl, like her mother, that was sure. She was blonde, because both parents were completely D'Haran in blood (much the same reason that Walter had been born blonde, despite his father's colouring). Amberlee, with her midnight black hair and harlequin green eyes, was merely an oddity in the D'Haran race. Both parents, and the entire bloodline of her family were completely D'Hara. Her parents were both blonde with blue eyes, yet through some quirk she was born the midnight princess that she had been.

Darken knew he may already be too late. But, he had to try it. He had to give the magic a chance to weave it's web. He took a deep breath, and let the heat from within his han build at the back of his throat. When it was practically burning a hole into the tender flesh of his trachea, he stepped up beside her corpse on the cot. He knelt slowly and put his hand carefully upon her jaw. Her lips parted a little. He leaned down close to the fallen Mord'Sith, and released the blazing Breath of Life into her parted lips gently. He stepped back as the glowing light wormed its way into her lungs.

Amberlee suddenly drew in a deep breath, before she sat up, coughing. Her dark hair was tangled from the amount of thrashing she had been trying to do while in labour. It had knotted with her spilled sweat. She lifted one hand and put it on her breast to steady herself as she panted. Drinking in deep breaths. It was not the first time she had felt the sensation of being ripped back from the gates of the Underworld. It was not the first that she had been given the Breath of Life in all of her years. But it was the first time that she had been called after being gone for so long. Her limbs felt a little heavy, she knew it would take a little time to feel completely alive once again. Slowly she turned her eyes to see who it was that had given to her the Breath.

Darken stood the side, watching her cautiously. In his arms he held her newborn girl, coddling her slightly.

Amberlee's heart leapt, terrified that he was going to tell her that the child was Pristinely Ungifted, and that he would slaughter her before her eyes. Yet he made no move.

He was only holding the little bundle. He looked down at the little girl as she reached up and waved her arms at him. He smiled just a little, never as brightly as he had when Walter had been born. He pulled the little girl closer and held her against his breast.

The Mord'Sith didn't know how to take this. Was he just toying with her, making her believe that her daughter was safe? She kept watching until finally she could take it no more. "Why are you here…"

Darken kept his eyes down upon the pale, blonde, little girl. "I came to revive you."

"Any of the Mord'Sith could have done that.", she wanted to spit the words at him, but she knew it would not be at all smart to do so. She knew he had come for a reason, but she wanted to hear it from him.

"I know. I also came to talk to you."

"You have not spoken to me but for orders since Walter was born."

"I know.", he looked up. His eyes, normally harsh, were slightly softened. A slight crack in the stone exterior that he wore.

Amberlee's brows furrowed together slightly. She didn't know what to think when she saw his expression. She didn't like it. She didn't like that he had a crack in his walls. She didn't like that he was not able to show the harsh demanding side at all times. What the hell was wrong with him?

Darken sighed and rolled his eyes. The crack sealed up as he turned arrogant once more. "I came because if I had not punished you for Walter's lack of han you would not have died in childbirth. Because you would never have had the little girl."

Amberlee's eyes narrowed again. Suspicious that he was going to kill the child, yet again he made no move. "You are not taking her from me as you took Walter."

Darken shook his head a little as he held onto the little girl. The child cooed and giggled, reaching up and into his dark locks. She gripped his tresses and tugged gently. She was too young for her jerks to hurt. "I wouldn't dream of it Amberlee. She is your daughter, not mine. However you know when she is old enough she will be trained as Mord'Sith."

Amberlee raised her jaw, looking down her nose slightly at him. She was trying to be dominant over him as she had once been under the power of their Mistress, Mistress Evelyn (who had finally died the year before, bound on her leash as she had been since Darken had raised himself to the Mastery of the Temple of Destinies). "I would have it no other way, Master.", her tone held a slight note of sarcasm at the mention of his title.

Darken could only smirk. "Good, than we are agreed. This child will be trained into being a Mord'Sith to serve her mother's Master as long as he should live."

Amberlee didn't like it when it was put that way. But she knew her daughter would be better off as a Mord'Sith than she would be as a servant girl or Healer. Yes, her daughter would be Mord'Sith. But she smirked herself, "Than I hope you train her yourself."

He grinned darkly. "If that is what her mother desires."

"Oh, it is.", it was a battle of the wills. Both too stubborn to give into the other. Master over servant; Mistress over slave.

"Than you had better name her now, so I know who she will become.", Darken was still smirking.

Kora stood the side, shaking her head. She couldn't believe how blind these two were being, or how utterly stupid they sounded.

"I already picked out her name."

"And it is?", Darken raised a brow as he looked at the midnight princess of a Mord'Sith.

Amberlee squared her jaw a little as she looked at him. She knew the name, but she wanted to make him sweat a little. Until she remembered just how he took control of the Temple of Destinies. He had acted broken. Acted weak, before he snapped and turned everything on its head. He was very capable of acting as though he was nervous and timid. She shook her head knowing it was better, in the long run, to answer her Master. "Denna."

Darken's smirk turned to a half-mouthed smile, but a smile none the less. He looked down at the little girl in his arms. The girl who was reaching up for him again. "Mistress Denna."

Amberlee kept watching him. "Why are you really here? You did not come to … _apologize_."

"Oh, but that I did.", he turned his eyes away from the blonde babe once more. Looking up to her mother. "I came because… because when I was told that you had died in childbirth, I thought my heart exploded… it felt uncannily like the sensation of an agiel pressed into my breastplate."

Amberlee raised a brow as she looked him over. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I… _care _… for you. Enough that I wish to apologize for ever demoting you. I am asking that you, once you are healed, to take your place at my side once again."

The woman stared at him a long moment. But despite the emotionless mask that she wore, her heart was melting ever so slightly beneath her breast. She wanted to hate him, but she couldn't at the moment. Not as long as her little Denna remained alive. Walter had been sent to be trained by the Dragon Corp, but she knew that as long as they had him he would remain alive. Especially since his training had been ordered by the King himself. Whether the people were aware of Walter's existence or not, the Dragon Corp would have suspected the reason for these orders coming right from Darken Rahl. She was so angry before, that she had been voiceless in her rage. But now that the time came to pour it out, she could not find the angry words. So she could only draw a deep breath. Mord'Sith were trained to love their Master above all else, and she couldn't shake that so easily. She could only nod her head. "Yes, Master."

Little more than year later, Amberlee was once more in the Houses of Healing located in the Peoples Palace. For the third time she was giving birth. As the other times, no man was allowed into the place of healing as long as she was in labour, not even the father, the King. But for once, both the Healers and Amberlee were thankful for this.

Amberlee gave birth to a little redheaded girl. Her hair was brilliant red, like Darken's mother's hair. The child had received her grandmother's, Snædis', hair through her father. But, unlike Snædis, the child was ungifted. Pristinely Ungifted.

Amberlee knew the wrath she would feel for the birth of such a useless child. She knew the punishment would be harsh. She cared not for the beating of her own body, but knew that Darken, whether he was the father or not, would murder the child before her very eyes. She could do no more than protect the child. No matter how she cared for the father, the baby was more important.

She turned to Kora desperately. She could feel the child's _abilities, _though she was no great sorceress herself. She knew here daughter was not like herself or like her Wizard of a father. "Kora, please…", she looked up from her place in the bed.

Kora was holding the swaddled child nervously. She had forced the other healers to breathe no word to the King that the child was born yet. She had bought them a little time. But she was frazzled and she was nervous. She turned her blue eyes towards the Mord'Sith Mistress.

"You have to protect my child. He cannot be allowed to slaughter her. She is his own flesh and blood. She is an innocent child!"

Kora shook her head a little. "Mistress, the laws of the Rahl Line state that all Pristinely Ungifted children are to be slaughtered by the hand of the ruling Father Rahl. Darken Rahl must-"

"No! Kora please! What if she were your daughter?"

Kora closed her eyes tightly. Her own child had been born Pristinely Ungifted (Amberlee was not aware of this) while Darken Rahl was being _trained_. He had been murdered by Ansleigh as a duty of the House of Rahl. Kora knew that Amberlee was right. She sighed and finally nodded. "Alright Mistress…", she turned to the other Healers that looked on nervously. "Riana."

Riana's eyes widened a little. "Yes Mistress?", she looked to the woman on the bed nervously before she looked to the Head Healer.

"You and the others will rush Amberlee and the child to a carriage. You, Riana, will travel as fast as you can and take her out of D'Hara and into the Midlands."

The Healer was shocked, but she nodded before stepping back into the line with the others.

Kora turned back to Amberlee, "In the Midlands you will become a villager wherever you find yourself. You will abandon the way of the Mord'Sith so you can hide and protect your child, do you understand me?"

Amberlee was shocked. She was leaving everything she knew behind, but she nodded a little. "Of course."

"Good. The rest of you are bound to secrecy, no matter what the King does to force you to speak."

The Healers all worriedly nodded. They feared the retribution of the butcher King they served.

Amberlee was carted that night from the Palace in secrecy.

She sat tiredly in the back of the carriage driven by the Healer Riana. The baby was held close to her breast, and was rocked gently. "I'm sorry Jennsen. But you'll never know your father. At least I pray you never know him.", she held the little bundle tightly against her breast.

But not all the Healers agreed with the plan. Within a week the secrecy was broken. Darken Rahl was told of the birth of his daughter. His Pristinely Ungifted daughter. And told of her and her mother's escape. The betrayal enraged him. He had been told by the lesser Healers that Amberlee had died and could not be revived. He had mourned for the bitch. He had been told the child was stillborn. He had mourned for the child he had never known. He had had to tell little Denna, whom he was raising with her mother, that her mother would not be returning. That she and her sibling had died. Denna had cried so hard. Instead he was learning that his lover and their child were escaping from him. How dare they? How dare Amberlee take the child from him. How dare she try to stop his duty as the Master of D'Hara.

Amberlee and Jennsen would be found, even if took a lifetime to hunt them out. Jennsen would be his to murder. She was, after all, of his flesh and blood.


	20. Chapter Nineteen: Silver Stone

**Author's Note: S**oooooo sorry about the wait. So... here's two chapters!

**Disclaimer: **See previous Chapters.

_**Chapter Nineteen: **_**Arrow **

Darken Rahl would not stop hunting them, not if it took him an eternity. But eternity, after all, was something he could use to find them. Amberlee and Jennsen would be found, and both would be slaughtered when the time came. Jennsen for being Pristinely Ungifted, and Amberlee from hiding this from him and making him mourn for her. For making Denna, her daughter, waking up crying for her.

No. Darken Rahl would not allow it. He hated seeing the blond little girl scream in the middle of the night. It both grated harshly against his nerves (there were times when he wanted to kill the child to shut her up), and broke what heart there was still beating in his breast.

Darken stood outside the door of the nursery, the room that belonged once to Jayden, when the boy lived, and Darken Rahl himself when he was a child. The nursery had housed each Lord Rahl (or Princess) in all of the history of the Peoples Palace. Inside the eighteen month old was wailing. It had been five months since Amberlee and Jennsen had left. Denna was still under the impression that her mother was in the Underworld, and she would be told no different. Eventually she would get over her grieving and move on. She would have to if she was to be Mord'Sith. But as it stood, she was just a child. Darken had awoken to her crying, and had merely rolled over and covered his head with a pillow. He had groaned when the child did not grow quieter with time. He kept shifting his legs back and forth, pressing the pillow closer against his left ear as he lay mostly on his right side. Trying to all holy hell to block out of the sound of her wailing. But he snapped; finally pulling himself from the bed. He stood now at the adjoining door, his brows knit together in concentration, as he absentmindedly chewed the inner left corner of his bottom lip. His arms were folded over his breast.

_"Just ignore her. Eventually she'll cry herself back to sleep, and then you can go back to bed. The little brat has to learn one way or another. No one is always going to be there when she is upset."_, one side argued in his mind. It was the side he was wishing he could listen to. But, the other was catching his conscience.

_ "Go to her. She's crying, she misses her mother. You know how it feels to know your mother is never coming back to you. You know what it's like to lose your parents. Just go to her, take care of her, and she'll calm down. You might not be her father, but she doesn't know any better. Not yet. When she is older she'll recognize you as her Master and not her parent. But, she is still a child."_, he sighed as he listened to the other side of the mental argument. He knew the answer. He couldn't just ignore the child; she depended on him. And, she was crying out "Dada!" He sighed, his eye twitching ever so slightly as he chewed on his lip still. He continued to try and fight his conscience. But, it eventually won out.

Darken unfolded his arms from his bare breast and opened the door to the nursery. Inside, the moonlight was flooding down through the windows and over the crib that the little girl was sitting up in. Denna was wailing as loudly as she could, her face scrunched up as her pitch heightened. Her face was red as a pomegranate, and tear stained. She waved and shook her fists up and down as she cried, wanting someone to hold her. To tell her it was alright. The young man watched her a moment from the door way with his brows knit together and his lips pursed at the left side. He was chewing the inside of his lips a little. He sighed to himself as he walked into the nursery, and looked down at the pathetic little girl. No matter how mad he might have been just outside the door, the bitterness died away. His glare softened, as he felt sorry for the little girl. She was still wailing; her eyes were closed and she did not see him. "Denna.", his voice was affectionate, but quiet in the night compared to her cries.

Denna sniffed a little, quieting down. She thought she heard her name. Slowly she opened her blue eyes. She was still crying, but the howling had turned to whimpers and hiccups. She saw him through her blurry eyes and lifted her arms up. She gripped up at the air, wanting him to pick her up, and to grip his hair. Her little fingers clutched at the night air.

He sighed and leaned down, his dark hair falling over his shoulders a little as he put his hands under her arms carefully. She was so tiny that he could hold her ribcage in the space between his index fingers and thumbs. Lifting the infant, he pulled her close to his breast, holding her on his hip. "It's alright Denna. I'm here."

Her little fists gripped at his dark hair as soon as she was close enough. She snuggled as close as she could to his warmth. She was whimpering and trembling still. "Dada…"

He sighed a little. He hated that she called him that. He was not her father. He was never going to be her father. He would raise her until she was ten, then she would be taken by the Mord'Sith to be broken. And then she would serve him as all the other Mord'Sith did. He was doing this not out of love, but out of duty. He had told Amberlee that he would raise the little girl with her, and when she _died _he couldn't just abandon the little girl that already knew him (Keeper knows he already tried to give her to a servant to raise, but the little girl sought him out and made him feel guilty for trying to do such a thing). No, this was obligation, and not adoration. Foot soldier Wilhelm wasn't even aware that he had a child. And it was going to remain that way. At least until the end of Denna's training as a Mord'Sith.

But the little girl was innocent. As far as she was concerned, Darken Rahl was her father. At least as long as she was an infant.

As soon as she was capable of comprehending such things, Rahl was going to make her know he was not her flesh and blood, but her Master. The one she would serve for all of her life. And as long as she loved him in one way or another, he assumed this action would make her all the more loyal to him.

Denna pressed a little closer, she was still crying. "Dada…"

Darken pulled her a little closer, rearranging his arms so she sat on his left forearm as it was braced under her. He freed his right hand and used it to stroke her blonde locks gently. He ran his hand over her thin little braid and down her back. He rubbed her petite spine in careful and slow circles as she started to calm down. "I'm here Denna. You're safe." he knew her crying had little to do with fear, but it nagged at him. When he lost his mother to her fiery execution, he had wept for her loss, but also from fear of being alone without her. It had already been six months since Amberlee's _death_, but he knew to the little girl it was only yesterday. "You're always safe with me.", he turned his face a little and kissed her tiny forehead.

Denna hiccupped once or twice again, before settling back in closer to him. She let go of his hair and wrapped her podgy little arms around his sun kissed neck. Hugging him close to herself. Darken closed his eyes a little as he walked her in slow circles about her room. His voice was soft in the darkness, "Ég er ljósið. Og ljósið alltaf að vernda þig.*" The toddler immediately fell into a calm state at the sound of the High D'Haran words. Even though she could not understand them.

Denna cuddled just a little closer to her _father. _Her podgy little hands gripped a little closer at the base of his neck underneath the curtain of his dark hair. She nuzzled a little closer, and laid her chubby little cheek against his defined collarbone. Taking comfort in his warmth. He _father's _embrace.

Darken tilted his jaw to the right and laid his cheek affectionately against the crown of her blonde head. He waited a long moment before he let his voice sound again. But now he hummed softly for her the tune that his mother always sang when he was a child. When he could not sleep. It came so easily to his mind he briefly feared that he had lost all of what was left of his sanity. His heart, though blackened now with the scorching touch of the Nameless One, seemed to tighten momentarily beneath his bare breast. His mother. How he still grieved for Snædis. Even if she had lied to his father and to him. Even if she had been a Witch Woman, or a Sorceress, or whatever she was (to this day Darken was still unsure of what his mother had been. But he supposed that it did not matter). He shook himself of the mental anguish as he continued to hum the soft tune for the child in his arms. Denna moved herself a little closer, scooching in his arms. She removed her little hands from his night-coloured locks and lifted on hand to suck on her thumb. Her eyelids were growing heavy. Her head was growing a little weightier against his collarbone as sleep started to enshroud her once more.

Finally the eighteen month old had fallen back to sleep, and he could finally get back to bed and sleep as he had been doing. He rolled his eyes a little when he realized she was asleep. Really? Is that all it took to distract the child? Give her a hug and hum a stupid little tune? He didn't realize that the entire time had been holding her he had been carefully bouncing her on his hip. It had been a slow and gentle; calming. He pulled her back from his chest and laid her back into her crib, covering her with the velvet blanket for the night once again. He headed back through the shadowed doorway and into his own chambers.

OoO.

The years passed. Denna grew from an infant and into a young child. She was now five years of age, and still very much attached to her _father_. Darken, however, had slowly distanced himself from her. Trying to slowly break her bond with him. That way when she was taken by the Mord'Sith she would not cry out for him. Than she would accept him as her Master. Her maker, and not her father. Then she would serve him in any way that he asked of her. _Any _way_. _

But the years had passed, and yet Darken remained yet unmarried. Egremont knew why; Darken had seen women for what they truly were; worthless. The Mord'Sith had beaten and broken him. The woman that would have been his wife left him then in the hour when he needed her most. She had done nothing to save him from the iron clutches of the leather clad women. Even Amberlee, his once faithful Mord'Sith had fled from him. She had even taken their daughter with her. Even the Confessor that had apparently sought to comfort his aching heart from beyond the grave had abandoned him. Where was Devya now? Now that he had sold his immortal soul for her, to bring her into the Land of the Living to be forever at his side? Where was she now, when the others had turned their backs on him? No. Women were not be trusted, not under any circumstances. No such being was to be within such a close distance of the throne of D'Hara. No Queen would ruin **his **Kingdom as they had ruined its King. Even the Mord'Sith did not have the trust which Darken had once so willingly placed into their hands. They had lost it the night that they had taken him from his bed. He had not trusted any woman in blood red leather again after that. Not fully. Not even Amberlee. Even she had been watched as a hawk would watch its prey. Not even Denna, when the time came, would be trusted. No woman was.

Yet Egremont shook his head at the vow that the young King had taken. He was not growing any younger, despite the fact that his visage had seemingly not changed from the day that he had returned to them from the east. At thirty-one years of age, Darken was quickly racing towards anarchy, and his General knew it. D'Hara was notorious for it's Kings leaving the world of the Living too soon, whether it be by assassination or the decay of time. It had been that way since the First Seeker, Oran Rahl, had died of battle injuries. Oran Rahl had died before he reached the age of forty. And he had left behind no heir, only his younger brother Balthazar. As far back into his peoples' history as he could fathom, Egremont could not think of one single Lord Rahl that had live to meet the age of three score. No King had attained sixty years. But at least they had all passed on with a child, a gifted male child, to leave behind as heir to the Kingdom.

Egremont would never give it voice, but he feared that if the King did not soon take a woman and produce a gifted heir, D'Hara would be left in ruin should he die. Yes, the Prophecy had been averted, but he secretly wondered if such a thing were at all possible. Could one simply _change _the words of the Creator that dictated what was to come? The Prophecy had never been given a timeline. For all Egremont knew, the Seeker had already been born many years before, and would rise up, soon. And though he did not question the strength and might of his King, he also knew better than to question the forces of fate. The forces of the Creator. The forces of the Spirits. What if, just if, the Prophecy had not been averted, and the Seeker rose? What if Darken Rahl was defeated as the words stated? What if Darken Rahl left behind no heir? D'Hara would fall into ruin. With no Rahl left, there would be no one who could rule the Kingdom.

No. Egremont did not like the King's vows at all.

Now, that was not to say that Darken had at all sworn himself celibate. Not at all. But it did mean that any woman that was pregnant with his child was put to death. This was the side of the Crimson Imperial that Egremont failed to see the logic of. Any of those women could very well have been carrying the heir of the Kingdom. Why would Darken Rahl not want to see that child born? The child could be no threat to him, not if he raised the infant himself. No matter how cruel the parent, a child would still love them. No matter what. After all he was already raising the little blonde child, Denna. A daughter of a man that was not even the King himself. How could the man be so two faced? How could there be such a double standard?

But alas, it was not Egremont's place to question the decisions of the King. He feared though, that Darken viewed himself as indestructible. That he would be immortal. Egremont knew of no way in which that could be possible. Just as he knew nothing of the covenant that Darken Rahl had made with the Keeper. If he had known, he would have begged the King to turn away from the shadows, break the bonds, and pray to the spirits. To bathe himself in the Light of the Creator so that he and his Kingdom might be saved.

Egremont had discovered something though in his position as the King's Advisor (though more often than not he was the one that was being told how things should be running). An ancestral pendant, which had been in the Rahl bloodline as long as there had been Rahls, had gone missing. It wasn't much, at least not to any other family. But to Egremont it meant something (even if it may not have to Darken Rahl himself). It was one of the objects of power for the Kingdom. Though the pendant contained no magic of any sorts, it was equally as important to the office of the King as the signet ring, and the crown. Equally as important as the magic that connected the line of Kings to one another.

Egremont paced back and forth worriedly. He released a slow and panicked sigh as he kept his eyes closed. He had searched the palace high and low, and that included places were no one was meant to enter besides the King himself, for the silver pendant. He stopped his movements and released another sigh as he raised a hand and smoothed out his eyebrows with the forefinger and thumb. He took a deep breath trying to calm his raging heart. _'It has to be here, somewhere._', he knew that the pendant could not simply vanish on its own. It had be hiding somewhere in the palace. He was just thankful that Darken had not called for it to be brought to him. This had been Egremont's quest; to locate, collect, and organise all of the D'Haran symbols of power into one location. Just _in case _the very worse should happen and a new bloodline had to rise to the title of Kings. They would need everything that had belonged to the dynasty of Rahl that came before them. But, he did not want to be the one to tell the King that it was missing. He still standing with his face in his hand when the door behind him opened.

Darken walked into his chambers, only to halt as he saw Egremont standing with his back to him. His dark and perfectly shaped brow rose as he looked at the man both confused and still arrogantly self aware. "Can I help you.", his voice was dripping with the sarcasm it held in it's flinty edge.

The General would have leapt out of his flesh, had he been any other man. He had been trained by the D'Haran army to not react to whatever shock that he felt. Especially not when in the presence of his Master. He cleared his throat and turned around, steeling his features with his best _Royal Advisor _expression. He calmed the storm in his mind and concreted his voice as he looked towards the King; Darken stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his weight shifted to one side leaving his hips off kilter. Egremont looked the young King up and down, trying to read what his mood was, but it was impossible. Darken never showed any emotion other than his anger. If it could be counted as anger. In truth it was closer to complete and utter psychosis when he snapped and lashed out. Beyond that, his face was a mask void of any emotion. Even if it were not for the mask he wore, Egremont doubted that he could penetrate the mind of his charge; Father Rahl had been broken and moulded into a Mord'Sith. One could never read a Mord'Sith. Not even a Confessor. Egremont found his voice. "No my Lord. I apologize for my intrusion, but I was merely searching for your ancestors' pendant. I was compiling the symbols of the Kingdom for you and for the next generations so that they all rest together."

"That is not necessary."

"I understand your statement my Lord, but I do feel that-"

"It. Is. Not. Necessary. The next generation will not need your help. Besides, you will not find that hunk of silver here."

Egremont's eyes lifted from his King's breast (he never liked to look into the other young man's eyes. It always sent chills down his spine, one vertebra at a time. That however would change in the future.). "Pardon, your Highness?"

Darken rolled his icy blue eyes as though he were dealing with a very small and stupid child. He was the same with Denna: rather cold. "I said you will not find Alric's pendant here."

The other man's brows knit together, just a little. "Oh?"

"No.", Darken rolled his eyes yet again. Why did he always have to explain everything? Why could not the people just take his words and leave them at that? At the original statement? "I gave it to someone."

_Tarralyn lay asleep on the large, velvet covered, bed. Her hands were pressed together almost in prayer, and tucked under her cheek. She lay on the right side of the bed, Darken's side, with her knees brought up close to herself. Her dark hair was fanned out around her head on the soft pillow like a halo. Her pale skin was illuminated by the silvery moonlight that shone down through the window and over her. _

_ Darken smiled down at her lovingly as he stood over the bed. His sun kissed flesh illuminated by the same moonlight. His long dark hair was pulled back and held in a loose braid that trailed it's way down between his shoulder blades and held together with a fine strip of white velvet tied haphazardly. He glanced to the object in his hand; a silver hexagonal pendant, decorated with tight spirals of ancient knot work. He had to smile to himself; the pendant had been in his family as long as there had been the name of Rahl. It was a little used symbol of authority over the lands of D'Hara, only to be worn when the new King was being crowned. He had worn it the day that he official celebrated his reign as King. Though, at that point the young man had been King already for eleven years. But that was besides the point. It was the mark of the heir of D'Hara. It was the mark of the child who would take his father's place as the ruling Lord Rahl when the time came. _

_ He leaned down close to her, putting his bare knee upon the bed at her side. His fingers carefully sought the dark tresses of her hair as he brushed them back from her jaw and white neck. His lips carefully found the curve of her jaw while his fluid braid slipped over his back. As he leaned close it hung lifelessly over his ribcage. _

_ Tarralyn's brows knit a little as she softly groaned, slowly waking up. She shifted herself slightly and turned her head, glancing back towards him. Her eyes were still blurred from sleep and she squinted a little to focus the swimming colours that were his face. But she smiled as her vision cleared, happy to see him leaning over her, his smile lighting her up. She shifted herself once again, and turned herself over onto her back. She stretched herself out and drew a deep breath before sighing in content. Darken put his hands on the bed to both sides of her ribs. He leaned down gently as her arms came up and wrapped about his shoulders. They kissed each other a long and tender moment before he finally pulled back from her lips. _

_Darken rested his forehead gently against hers; wisps of his hair fluttered slightly in the light breeze that entered through the open window. Even though outside the world was trapped in Winter's harsh claws. He stayed there for a moment as he held onto her. He found his voice shortly after, "I have something for you_."

_Tarralyn's dark brows knit together, just a little. "Darken you know you don't need to-"_

_His smiled widened a little, into a tooth filled smirk. "And you know I don't need to listen to you.", he pulled back a little and kissed her cheek gently. He looked back into her eyes, "I still have something for you.", he lifted his left hand, as it held the silver pendant. The little hexagon spun slightly on it's black leather cord, reflecting the pale moonlight. _

_Her blue eyes widened just a little as he held it up for her eyes to see. Her irises quickly moved from the glimmering shape back to his sparkling blue eyes. "Darken no… that's your-"_

_ His smile broadened further, it lit up his entire being. "I know what it is Tarralyn. I want you to have it. I love you, and I am entrusting it to your care. When we have a family of our own than you will give it to our son, when he is old enough."_

_ It was her turn to smirk. "Why Father Rahl, is that your way of asking for my hand?"_

_ He blushed a slight shade of pink in the darkness as he looked towards her. It took him a good long minute to find his voice once again. "Yes…", he smirked and kissed her again, catching her off guard._

_ Tarralyn gasped against his lips, but she caught on and kissed him in answer. But she pulled back after a moment. "Thank you.", leaning in she rubbed the tip of her nose lovingly against the side of his. Her hand lovingly holding his face with one hand. He took the chance when it came a few moments into the kiss, carefully pulling back from her lips. He lifted the pendant on its leather thong and laid it gently over her head. He moved her hair and straightened the cord just a little; letting the silver decoration hang tenderly over her heart and between her breasts. _

Egremont could only stare at his King. Shocked that he would do such a thing. Something so… so… stupid. Naturally the General by no means thought his Lord to be dimwitted, but still he was guilty of a thoughtless action. He had been irrational. He had known Tarralyn only weeks, and yet he had laid the symbol of his house upon her breast. He had given away an heirloom; a symbol of his office.

Darken could feel the man's eyes burning into his flesh. His own icy blue irises flashed up in an instant. He barked, "Stop staring or I'll give you something to be scared of!"

Egremont finally blinked; brought out of his reverie. He jolted slightly, surprised at the sudden anger that was lashed out back at him. But he realized he must have been gazing upon the young man for longer than he thought. He felt as though it were only mere seconds. But with Darken, even seconds appeared to be too long. "My Lord, I apologize. I… I was merely thinking of a way to regain the pendant for your heir."

Darken's eyes narrowed dangerously. A dark light glimmering behind them. "And just why do you think I would want that?"

"Well, my Lord, in time you will want for an heir, and when that heir is born he is supposed to be gifted the silver pendant. As your father gave to you, and as his father gave to him, and so on and so forth."

Darken could not help the low, angry, growl that seeped from behind tightened lips and bared teeth. His voice, lower in pitch than it was normally, followed after. "Do not dare to think that you know what is best for me. I know what I want, and I know how I want it. I do not desire to have an heir, nor do I need one."

Egremont shifted his weight back and forth slightly. He knew he needed to answer or he would be punished for it. But he also had to dance around the subject lightly enough to risk no offence, and firm enough to not seem the fool. He cleared his throat softly and hardened himself. "Mm, yes your Majesty, I understand. But if I may be so bold.", he looked up once more. His eyes met the still narrowed and still angry eyes of the Lord of D'Hara. He was given no permission, but nor was he denied the ability to speak as he so wished. He was merely glowered at. Egremont took the chance and cleared his throat ever so slightly. "My Lord, if I may be so bold, though you are young and full of life, you simply _cannot _live forever. No one does my Lord. It is not possible. Even the greatest of Wizards and Witch Women die after a time. You will eventually need an heir to take your place and rule the Kingdom. Ultimately D'Hara will need a new King to rule in your stead."

Darken straightened his back and tilted his jaw towards the sky slightly, so that he may look down his arrogant nose at the somewhat older man. He kept that piercing gaze for a long and unsettling moment (though Egremont stood fast to keep his side of the argument strong.) Eventually the King found his voice. He made sure to keep his words straight (though his mind might have been running through a thousand different thoughts at the same time), and his meaning clear. His voice was low and came out lingeringly. "General Egremont.", he started with a sluggish but indignant tone. "When and **if **the time comes that D'Hara will need a new King, I am sure you will find _someone _to take my throne. Until then, I suggest you drop all thought of my successor. You are **my **General. You are **my **advisor, and as your King you will listen to **me. **If you should so much as bring this thought of yours to light once more, should it be in my presence, or should it ever reach my ears, you will be arrested. I will charge you with Treason, and I **will **kill you myself. Do you understand me, General Egremont?"

Egremont was left standing in partial shock. He knew what death he would be dealt should he disobey his Lord. It would be the same fate as Ansleigh before him had met; he would serve the King one last time in advice or knowledge, before he died the slow death that came from the disembowelment. From the Anthropomancy. The death would be beyond slow, and more painful that even the Mord'Sith could imagine. No. it was best to drop the subject entirely. After all, he was only the advisor to the King. It was the King's duty to worry about the Kingdom, both during his life, and how it would fair in his death. Egremont lowered his head and nodded curtly a few times. "Of course your Majesty. I was only seeking to please you."

Darken rolled his eyes and folded his arms over his breast as he shifted his weight. He through his hips off kilter as he tilted his head slightly to look at the General with all the sarcastic displeasure he could possibly muster. He knew the man was only saying such words to appease his temper. But, at least the man knew his place. Not like that bastard Ansleigh. "You can go."

General Egremont nodded his head once more, "very well my Lord. If you have need of me, I will be in the throne room-"

"I know where you will be. I am the one that assigned your post!", again Darken's anger broke it's already fragile leash and lashed out."

Egremont bit his tongue and merely nodded. With his front still facing his King, he backed out of the King's Chambers. He did not wish to turn his back on the young man so long as the King was in such a dark mood. Or ever. Everyone in the palace had learned to not turn their back on Darken Rahl, even if it was meant with no disrespect. Darken Rahl would kill you in an instant if he at all thought you were being insubordinate.

Egremont had left the King's Chambers. Darken sighed deeply to himself as he locked the door after the General had left. He shook his head and calmly made his way back into the large stone room. He glanced around himself, looking for something that wasn't there. That had never been there. Going on in this way was ridiculous. Everything that had once made perfect sense (at least before the Mord'Sith had made him into one of them), was now tossed to the wind. Nothing was anything any more. And it hadn't been in years.

Denna was growing up, and though she was only five years old, he knew she would soon enough be of age for the Mord'Sith to take her and start her training. In one way, the thought pleased him greatly; the blonde child would be at last fulfilling her mother's expectations of her. She would at last be a help to her _father _and not a hindrance as she had been this entire time. She would be a warrior woman who would inflict both fear and pain into the hearts, minds, and bodies of the people of D'Hara…and one day the Midlands. Yes. She would be serving her Master and her true purpose finally, when the Mord'Sith took her.

Yet that day was still years off, the girl had at least four more years of being a child, and being a burden to the King. Still, the other side of him spoke out just as loudly as it had ever. And just as ever, he hated himself for even having the other side to still speak to him. While one side spoke happily that the child would be a Mord'Sith, the other side recoiled at the thought. Balked at the mere notion that a child, a child who was by all means but blood _his _child, would be put through the pain and torture that the Mord'Sith dealt out with ease. That any child, yet alone _his _child, would have to either live through the very same pain and torment that he had withstood (if just barely) at the hands of the women in red leather, or die by them. That Denna, his little Denna, would have to be broken three times before she became Mord'Sith. Three times. Even Darken himself had only withstood "two" breakings. Even then, when he finally broke, it was on the second supposed turn.

Darken shook his head to free himself of the thoughts, as if by some magic the action would loosen their hold and throw them from his mind (most likely through the ears). He sighed to himself as he sat at the antique vanity in his chambers. Mostly reserved for the Queen of D'Hara, but without such a woman it remained untouched. He turned his blue eyes towards the silver sheet of a mirror, framed in gold and rubies, and he had to sigh. The man looking back at him looked the same as he did the day he returned from the Temple of Destinies. He looked the utter same, right down to the very fine wrinkles around his eyes and his mouth. Nothing, wholly nothing, had changed in the seven years since he had returned. The Keeper had been right. At least on the count that he would not age as fast as others in his court.

His mind wandered yet again; wondering how the last seven years had been to Tarralyn. He wondered if she were still the young beauty, or if the last near-decade had ravaged her loveliness. He couldn't image how it would have, but he was still curious. He sighed and placed his right elbow upon the vanity desktop, resting his chin in the palm of his right hand. He was bored, and he was saddened, if only slightly, by the thought that he should never know the answer to that question. Yet his mind snapped again, and Darken immediately sat himself upright as his sapphire eyes widened. There was a way. Oh there was a way. And it was the very object that Egremont had been searching for and inquiring after. Alric's silver pendant. Of course! Darken smirked to himself as he regained his full arrogance and ego. Of course only _he _would have seen the road. It was not meant to be any other way. He grinned to himself darkly in the reflection of the mirror; a demon in the guise of an angel. How the spirits were watching over him.

It was simple, truly and utterly simple. A tracer cloud. He already knew what it was he was attempting to track, and he knew who had it. He just had to equate in the fact that he did not in fact know where said object, and said woman were. But that was what magic was for. What fun would there be if everything could be handed to him on a plate? No, actually having to use proper magic to locate the object of his sinister desires would be the thrill he was seeking. Tracer clouds were simple; as long as he could keep the cloud in his sight, he could find the woman and the pendant. He couldn't believe he did not think of it sooner. Six years sooner to be precise.

Darken concentrated on the pendant; his eyes closed to the world. All sounds were shut out but the beating of his heart. It was like thunder to his ears. Concentrating his entire mind on the small hexagon of silver, wherever it was in the world.

Somewhere in the world it heard it's rightful master's call. And while the pendant was nothing but a coin of silver, and held no more magic than any other coin, it knew how to answer. And answer it did, sending out a silent and imperceptible, to all but Darken, beacon. A flashing bolt of metaphorical lightning to illuminate the way from Tarralyn to Darken.

The King's eyes opened once again; his brows released from their harsh furrow, and he smirked to himself. Maybe that was easier than he had given it credit for. Though he knew not where, he could feel that the pull of the coin was based in the west. Passed the Boundary, and possibly passed the other Boundary. Perhaps somewhere in Westland.

OoO.

Egremont had not seen his King since their _conversation _the day before. Darken, he knew, had locked himself away in his private chambers, but for what purpose he could not fathom. He feared that he had deeply upset the King, he feared that whatever he had done might cause himself to lose his head. Literally. The King was notorious for his sharp and quick temper. A temper that once ignited would slowly burn and smoulder away for years and years. He had always had that temper, but had kept it on a tighter leash. Had had control over it. But since the former advisor, Ansleigh, had sent him away to the Mord'Sith of the Temple of Destinies, the control that Darken had had over his anger was all but eradicated. And though the King might have lashed out quickly to throttle the person or persons that had lit his fuse on whatever subject on whichever day that was not the end of the temper. No, it was not satiated with the death or punishment of those that were responsible. No, the anger and the betrayal, the bitterness, the cruelty, it continued to burn on like the fires of the Underworld, for years. He was still just as mad about Ansleigh's betrayal now, as he was the day that he had realized the disloyalty. Just as angry as the day he had destroyed Ansleigh, and any trace of the man's existence in the world. He was still just as angry to this day as he had been when he learned that Egremont had been keeping the prophecy of the Seeker from him. Just as enraged as the night he had completely destroyed the corpse of his ancestor, and the effigy of the man. The first Seeker of Truth; the root of his own supposed death. The anger was still burning just a brightly, if only kept under a shadowy layer of contempt and a bare concentration on the issues of the present. The past was not forgotten, nor was it forgiven. Egremont knew this. He knew the anger was still burning against him, for keeping the Prophecy a secret from him. He knew he was still just as likely to be executed for that offence as he was for any present crime. God help him should he anger the King as violently once more. His head would be on a pike before the city gates for certain. That is why Egremont paced anxiously; the King had not been seen. And though he was positive that Darken Rahl was perfectly fine, and still very much alive, he knew that something, somewhere in his black heart and burning mind, something had to have reignited old thoughts. Old suspicions. Something, somewhere, was keeping Darken Rahl from his duties. From _his _child.

The greying man kept his eyes lowered to the floor, and his hand over his mouth as he paced. Though he repeatedly turned to face the entryway, he never laid eyes upon it. His mind, and therefore his concentration, was locked onto the brooding thoughts of what Darken Rahl might be brooding over. He didn't see the figure as it entered the throne room. But he heard the boot heels. His strides immediately halted and his eyes lifted to the doorway.

Darken Rahl had made his way down one of many long halls, and through the entrance of the throne room. His dark hair lay unbound about his broad shoulders. He moved with a purpose. But what caught the General off guard, was his King's state of dress.

In the passed years Darken was never seen wearing anything but the highest quality red and gold finery. On rare occasions he wore white and silver, as if trying to symbolize his "purity"… his utter goodness (it rarely, if ever, worked). Though he had many different robes and coats of red and gold, it was always the same; blood red and gold. Whether it is velvet, brocade, chiffon, silk, linen, taffeta, suede, or leather, it was always the same. Either the body was red and trimmed in gold, or the body was gold and trimmed in red (the second of which was almost as rare as his whites were). And yet here stood the young King in anything but red and gold finery. Not white and silver, not blue, not even black. No, here stood the King in all the finery of a peasant. His dark hair lay in softly curling waves about his broad shoulders. The King was wearing a simple, unadorned, long cotton shirt in a pale gray-green tone. The tunic was open to his upper abdomen, allowing for a section of his tan breast to be seen. He wore faded gray breeches, and tall worn leather boots. The last time he had worn anything as remotely ordinary (at least while he was King and not with the Mord'Sith for his breaking), had been when he was twenty-one and travelling back to the Peoples Palace from the place he had been hidden away to heal in. he had worn the clothing of a commoner then so that he did not bring attention to himself as himself and his contingent moved through the country-side. No one had known what the King looked like, and therefore rich, luxurious, clothing would have brought the wrong sorts of attention, and ill news. He had then covered himself and his face with a black soft woollen cloak. It had easily fulfilled it's task; it had hidden him away from prying eyes, kept him warm, and had kept him dry. Even during the heavy and dreary rains that had seemed to follow him on his way to the Throne of D'Hara. Though the cloak had sat for a decade, folded and forgotten in the kist at the foot of the King's large bed, here it made it's place known once again. It had been brought forth to show it's merit one _last _time.

Egremont was lost as he looked the younger man over; the soft wool easily conformed and hugged against his broad shoulders. The long loose edges of the hood (used as one would a winter scarf: to wrap around the wearer's throat and keep them warm against the weather) had been crisscrossed over his wide chest and kept loosely tied behind him, beneath the hanging tails of the wool cloak. He could only stare, fighting to fathom as to why his King would be dressed in such an unfitting manner.

And then he realized.

Darken had learned the location of Alric's pendant, and therefore had learned the current residence of the woman who bore it. Tarralyn, the woman that had once been his lover, before Ansleigh had set the Mord'Sith upon him. Before the woman ran in fright for her own life.

Tarralyn was the root of the reason for Darken's contempt for the female gender. He viewed them as nothing but breed stock, at least now after two women had fled apparently in horror from him. Tarralyn was the first, but not the last. She had been merely the start, but also the root. Her example had been followed by Mistress Amberlee, the Mord'Sith that had fled from her lover, Darken Rahl, in terror. She, as Tarralyn, had been apparently terrified for her life. Granted, Darken had to give Amberlee _some _credit; she fled for the fear of her child's life. His child's life. But as far as he knew (or cared to know), Tarralyn had run in a selfish act to save herself from the Mord'Sith should they return to take her to be broken as they had taken him. One side of the King knew that what Tarralyn had done, had been the right thing. Of course it had, because that side of Darken would never want to see anyone else go through the pain and humiliation that he had withstood. He wouldn't even wish it on the Mord'Sith themselves. Yet that side was but a mere shadow of the man that he had become, and the rest of his mind and his heart burned in anger at the thought of how any one who **claimed **to _care _for him could abandon him when he needed them most. How could Tarralyn have done such a horribly egotistic act of self-preservation? How could any one do such a thing to the man (or woman) that they loved?

Egremont's mind was flying over all the things that he knew about the relationship that had once existed between Tarralyn and Darken Rahl. She had been a woman, not of D'Haran descent, that had been found nearly frozen to death under the snow of the Azrith Plains in one of the most bitterly cold winters that anyone could recall. Darken had taken the young woman into his own care when his Healers had been at utter capacity; he had cared for her, treated her, and even resurrected her with the Breath of Life when she had succumbed to the cold that ate away at her body. He had done seemingly everything for the young woman, when it was not even his place to do so. Egremont saw no other side to it; the woman had used the King for his kindness (which in his mind she had helped to kill when she left as she had). She had bedded with him, most likely only to get in good with him, and perhaps even become his Queen. Well, now because of her (and the Mord'Sith as well as Ansleigh), the people of the Kingdom had to suffer under a King whom had lost most of his mind, and his kindness. The benevolence has been replaced with a deep and festering darkness that rooted itself in his very heart. A heart that had once served the people, rich and poor, young and old, equally. That heart had now turned black and had shrivelled. It was barely more than a large piece of coal sitting beneath his breast.

Why on earth would Darken Rahl wish to see the woman again? If he meant only to kill her, Egremont did not see the point. Darken Rahl was a rich, and powerful man. What would one woman somewhere out in the world really change? He was of course not thinking such things for the woman's benefit, but for that of the King. Was it not easier to let ancient wrongs remain dead? Was it not easier to let sleeping gars lay, so to speak?

The General looked up from his current place. Apparently for the last several seconds as all of these thoughts flashed through his mind in rapid succession, he had been staring at the bare slice of the King's sun kissed breast. He shook his head slightly as he looked once again into the icy blue eyes of his Master. "My Lord, I must tell you this is madness. What good will it do for you, what peace will it bring, to find the woman once again?"

Darken raised an arrogant, plucked, brow. He rolled his frosty eyes ever so slightly to himself, as he pulled his shoulders back in a subconscious move to make himself once more the master in charge of the situation. "I haven't a clue what you are talking about Egremont.", he easily stepped forward, making no move to sidestep his advisor as he did so.

Egremont had no choice but to turn and step just out of his King's way, else he feared that he might find himself on the receiving end of his Lord's gold-sheathed dagger. A dagger which he could not help but notice tucked into the supple black leather belt that Darken wore. The sheath, nearly shadowed by the mass of the cloak being worn, glittered faintly in the dying light of the sun streaming through the windows. But still he knew he had to try and talk _some _sense into the man, who seemed bound and determined to put himself in danger in order to visit (for whatever purpose he did not know), a traitorous wench. "My Lord, _please!_ You are needed **here**, in the Peoples Palace. Here in D'Hara! You are our Master, our guide; you cannot just simply pick up and leave because you feel like it!", while his voice held the strong edge of anger, it was concern and worry that was driving his words. He feared for Darken, feared that should he leave the Palace, and travel on his own through the Plains, and through passed the Boundary (for Egremont held no belief that Darken Rahl would not be able to cross such a barrier) that something would befall him. It was a feeling that he could not shake, and he did not like it. With no heir, and no one even remotely related to the King that he could find as of yet (though he prayed that somewhere there may be a half brother, or even, god forbid, a half-sister who had a strong husband that could rule) to take the throne in the horrible chance that something _could _happen, the stakes were too high to let the King go roaming. At least alone. "Please your Highness, if you must set out, can it not be done with riders to go with you? Can you not travel with a few of your most loyal at your side? To keep you safe!"

Egremont could practically see the change come over the King. It washed over him like a wave of ice water. His brows knit together tightly, framing narrowed and nearly fully lidded eyes. He pursed his lips together as his bottom jaw jutted itself out. His face was a mask of barely contained anger. He expressed both his irritation at the words spoke, and his complete disgust at what was being insinuated. Darken Rahl was far from happy. Egremont could only keep his eyes gazing back towards his King, knowing that in order to get through this, he had to keep his ground. But Rahl's flinty voice dragged out slowly, and coldly. "You do not think that your Lord, the Master of the Mord'Sith, can take care of himself? Hmm?"

The General pursed his own lips and raised his jaw to counter the expression of contempt that was so freely pointed towards him. "I did not say that your Majesty. I only meant that _should _something happen to you, it would be wise to have others with you. So that they may die in your place and you will remain safe."

Darken made no verbal response. In its place he folded his arms over his breast and stepped his right foot forward as he shifted his weight onto his left foot. The reasoning for this move was not lost upon the General once his eye caught it. Attached to the black leather belt, Darken wore the Mord'Sith red leather tri-belt which connected to a leg guard and holster via a triangular plate of silver. In the holster of the leg guard was Mistress Evelyn's agiel. As he moved, the chain of the weapon swung back and forth ever so slightly. The links of bronze jingled and sang a little tune.

Egremont's eyes flashed to the weapon. He knew it was hypocritical to say that he would send out a Mord'Sith with only one such weapon, and not the King who also armed himself with a dagger, but if they lost one Mord'Sith it would not destroy the country. To lose the King would through everyone and everything into anarchy. Chaos would rule. "My Lord, please. Take Frayden with you at _least."_

Darken had clearly had enough. He immediately started walking forward once more. He would make his way out of the Palace, even if it meant walking _through _Egremont. The man was not going to stop him no matter what he said or did.

Once again, General Egremont knew he had no choice but to step out of the path which the Lord of D'Hara was walking. There was no other option but to make way as he truly did not want to meet his death over such an argument. But he still sighed angrily as he made way. Just how was he supposed to Advise the King, when the man would not listen to him? He could only shake his head as he watched the dark haired man stride out of the throne room and out to the entrance of the city.

Outside, Darken raised the black hood of the woollen cloak over his hair and set off towards the west on foot.

_* This "High D'Haran" phrase is actually Icelandic, and translates to English as "I am the Light. And the Light will always protect you."_


	21. Chapter Twenty: Southaven

**Disclaimer: **See previous Chapters.

_**Chapter Twenty: **_**Southaven**

"Don't worry so much Tarry." he smiled gently and touched his rough hand to her soft cheek. He leaned in close, and she could see the growing smile-lines etched into his kind face all around his mouth. Soon his lips pressed against her forehead and a sense of tranquility flowed through her. It seemed to start at his lips and spread down her spine. One vertebra at a time.

The moment he pulled back from her, the feeling of calm flittered away like the autumn leaves upon the breeze. Back to reality it seemed. She once more opened her sapphire eyes to gaze back into his. Worry still knit her brow, and her shoulders had slouched themselves under the weight of the thoughts in her mind. "George, I am afraid of what could happen to you. To both of you." her eyes briefly looked down to the nearly nine year old boy who stood at her husband's side. Her eldest son, Michael.

"Tarralyn," his voice had firmness to it, through it retained its kindness. He only kept a stern tone to get her attention back on him. When his wife's eyes returned to his, George Cypher could not help but smile. His wife was beautiful, even now as she started to get the aging lines that came with worry and happiness. She was as beautiful now as she was the day that they had married years before. He caressed her cheek once more, lovingly before laying a second sweet kiss, this time upon her lips.

Both boys stuck their tongue out in disgust. Michael stood at his father's side, while his younger brother, Richard, stood at their mother's. Michael often wondered why his brother didn't look like him or his father, but never thought too much of it. It was clear that he looked like their mother. Richard had blue eyes, much like their mother's, and yet different. His hair was lighter than his father's, brother's, or mother's. His locks were a dirty blond instead, but considering neither boy knew the grandparents from either side, it could not be written off that it was a trait from further back in their family line. Tarralyn knew better, but she would never say.

The woman pulled back from her husband once more, yet she did not move so far. She stood close and rested her forehead against George's gently. "I'm just afraid. I know the dangers that the Midlands bring. Just… promise me that you will be careful. Promise me that both of you will return to us safely?"

In his wife's eyes George Cypher could see the pain and worry. He could see her soul practically screaming for them not to leave. But, he knew the way and was not blindly leading himself and his child into danger. Yes, the Midlands could _potentially _be dangerous, but than again so could any land. So could Westland, even if Hartland itself was fairly safe. There were still those unscrupulous men and women that would do anything for coin of silver or gold. There was no such thing as a utopian society after all. He ran the backs of his fingers over her pale cheek yet again, slowly and tenderly to assuage whatever fears that she still held. He knew the road, he knew the way through King's Port Pass. He knew the way into the Midlands. Yes, it was dangerous and one could potentially find themselves in the Underworld if they were not careful, but George was confident in his own ability to navigate the twisting and winding road. Even the Narrows. Even with their son with him. "Of course I will bring us both home safely."

Michael was just that year and a little older than his brother Richard. George had decided (after much begging and pleading from the boy), that Michael was old enough to accompany him on his journey; they would be merely going to different peoples in the Midlands, different markets, and trading for goods that could not be found in Westland. Tools, exotic plants, things of that nature. All in all it would be a safe trip; it was only the passage between lands that was at all any danger. Richard was only seven years old, but soon enough he would be given the chance to go with his father through the Boundary as well, at least if he chose to.

Richard was interested in the stories that his father told him of the other side; he was smart too. George had always brought toys for his two boys, but only Michael showed any full interest. Richard would play because his brother wanted to play with him, but the nearly blond little boy found more joy in books. Granted, he was young and could barely read himself, he loved his studies than the toys brought home. So George had learned to bring a toy or toy weapon for Michael, and a book for Richard. Usually they were books of Faerie Tales, but it pleased the little boy no matter what the book was. Richard had learned to read with one of the books that George had returned with. By the time George returned from his next trip, Richard was reading competently (with the help of his mother of course). But though he was interested in the stories and legends that came out of the Midlands, he never expressed any interest in going. He, unlike Michael, did not bother and bug and beg his father to be allowed to go with him. He seemed happy enough, at least at the age of seven, to remain at home with Tarralyn and his friend Zedd.

He sighed but smiled gently. "Hunny, you know that Michael is safe with me."

Tarralyn's eyes widened slightly; she had not meant to imply that their child was not safe with his father, only that the quest itself was dangerous. That there were things out in the Midlands that could in fact bring harm to a boy who had never seen them before. That there were things in the pass in the Boundary that were lethal. But she could only nod her head gently. "I know George. I know. I just want you both to be careful. I love you."

He smiled tenderly in return. "I love you too Tarry." he turned his eyes down the boy who stood at his side. "Michael, say goodbye to your mother and brother and let's be on our way."

Michael stepped forward and hugged Tarralyn around her waist. "Bye Mama. I love you."

Tarralyn had to smile softly. She hugged him back and wrapped him in her pallid arms briefly. "I love you too Michael, and I'll see you soon. Have fun, and be careful."

Michael pulled back from her and smiling up at her, "I will Mama.", he turned his attention next to the quiet boy who stood beside his mother. His younger brother. "Bye Richard. See you soon."

"Bye bye Michael.", Richard reached out and hugged his brother tightly for a long moment. Even if it caught the other boy of guard.

It wasn't long before Michael was hugging his little brother in return. "Take good care of Mama, alright?"

Richard pulled back with a grin and nodded his head frantically. "I promise I will.", he turned to his father and hugged him tightly as well. "Bye Daddy."

George smiled and picked Richard up quickly. He hugged him tightly against himself. "Goodbye Richard. Have fun with your studies while we're gone."

The little boy's smile was contagious, "I will!"

The man set his child down gently again, before giving his wife one last embraces. He pulled Tarralyn close against his breast and rubbed her back lovingly with his hand. "We're going to be fine. You'll see."

Tarralyn breathed a sigh of relief. She wrapped her arms around his neck gently and tugged him closer. She cuddled as far into his embrace as she could before whispering into his ear. "I know you are. I love you."

"I love you too Tarralyn. With all my heart.", George pulled back away from her and quickly brushed his lips once more over hers. But as soon as the kiss was laid, he had pulled back and turned with Michael. Heading off towards the eastern horizon.

Tarralyn stood back with Richard. Her hand was gently on his right shoulder, holding her son against her right side. They were waiting for the chance to wave at the other two family members that were retreating. They lifted their hands and waved as the father and son turned around once more to wave.

And Michael and George were gone. It would be at least two months before the pair returned to Westland.

OoO.

His feet hurt so much. When he had begged to go with his father to the Midlands, Michael had not thought that they would have to be walking so much. At the moment he wanted nothing more than to turn around and go back to warmth of the Inn that they had left the night before. But there was no turning back now. They were already into King's Port Pass, and they would be walking straight for another two days. Stopping their progress was not an option. There were too many Underworld creatures that could capture a grown man when he was resting, yet alone a child. Grippers were a threat at all times; if they caught a hold of you, you were as good as dead. Or at the very least you would have to hack from yourself the very limb that they had attached to. His father had warned him about the Grippers, but stupidly he had not believed him. That was until he saw through the murky green light of the Boundary walls a Gripper that had caught a small fox (at least that was what he thought it was, he couldn't be entirely sure due to the distance) and was feasting horribly on it. He had shivered deeply disturbed to himself as he followed behind his father, holding his hand to keep safe.

But Michael knew that there were other things in the Boundary than just Grippers, even if George had not told his son as such. In the distance he heard howling, loud and melancholy. It was not unlike the wolves that prowled the Hartland woods, and yet it was much more unnerving. Their calls were long and sorrow filled. They chilled the child down to his very core.

George had not told his child about the Heart Hounds. He saw no need to scare the boy when the prospect of actually seeing one of the Keeper's dogs was very slim. Should the boy catch sight of one through the Boundary walls, then he would explain it. Until that time, he did not see there being a benefit to scaring his young companion with the truth. The Heart Hounds were larger than any other wolf, with a pelt the length and general colour of a deer's. Their fangs were two inches longer than the normal wolf and averaged at five inches long. But they had the massive head to match. Most of all though, George dreaded telling his child why they were called Heart Hounds. He did not wish to tell his child that when they took humans (and most likely other creatures), that the Heart Hounds went straight for the chest. They would rip out your heart, and while it was still beating they would devour it. It was their meal. The rest off you would be picked clean by the other scavengers, such as the Grippers and whatever foul beast roamed these woods.

The howling came once again; it travelled over the horizon from within the Boundary. The magic of the barrier, which Michael thought would subdue the call, only magnified it. He shivered deeply, but in so doing he came too close the wall on either side of the path. Immediately the sickly green light of the Underworld illuminated him as his father. George pulled his son closer to his back. He did not want to have to explain to his wife that their son had brushed against the Boundary and had been pulled in by the dark spirits that lurked inside. He had promised that they would both come home safely. But Michael clung close to his father. "Papa?"

"Yes Michael?", George's voice came from above him. Still, despite their current location and their pace to make their way through the winding pass, his tone was kind.

Michael was looking all around, back and forth from the left to the right and back again. He was trying to see through the Boundary to see what animal was making the howling. Yet he couldn't see any such beast. "What is making that howling?"

George thought for a brief moment, before he came to the easiest conclusion. "Wolves Michael."

Michael looked up at the back of his father's head as he held his hand with both of his own. "But they don't sound like regular wolves."

"No, they don't do they? It's just the magic of the Boundary, son. There's nothing to fear about the howling.", he hated himself for saying that, but he did not want to scare his son so badly that he could not continue. Not when he knew the chances of them encountering the Heart Hounds was rare. Heart Hounds would not come after a man and his child for no reason; they had to be unleashed upon them. They had to have orders from either the Keeper, or one of his Banelings. George knew that much, and knew that neither he or Michael would be of enough interest to either. So, other than perhaps a scare from seeing a hound take down a dear or other animal, Michael would be safe just as he had promised Tarralyn.

Michael whimpered, but he nodded. Walking on in silence for some time. He was so tired already, and his feet ached. He lost track of how long they had been walking, but he knew it was getting late into the night. He couldn't even see the moon shining down through the green light of the Boundary any more. It had to have been at least Midnight now, and yet they had to keep moving. Two days and two nights constantly moving it would take to reach the other side. Michael was already feeling the pull of sleep even though they were only partially into their first night travelling through the Boundary between Westland and the Midlands. He was so tired that he had started to stumble every once in a while. George tried to keep his son balanced, but he knew that there wasn't going to be much luck. If worse came to worse he would carry the boy if he absolutely had to, he just prayed that the child would awake before they reached the Narrows if that situation came to pass.

Michael's eyes were starting to droop as he kept moving behind his father. He found that his footsteps were almost automatic; he moved robotically because he was so tired. His eyes fluttered, breaking up the image before him and George every once and a while. He caught glimpses of squirrels through the light, and other animals, but his exhaustion was becoming so great that he couldn't care any less. Until he caught sight of the large shadow looming through the Boundary wall maybe quarter of a mile away. Due to the twists and turns of the path, though the shadow was on the path ahead of them, Michael was viewing it through the wall of the Boundary to his right.

The boy perked up and woke up when he saw the shadow. "Papa.", he tugged on George's sleeve gently to get his father's attention. When his father turned to look down while they steadily made their way forward through the winding and twisting route, Michael pointed towards the shadow. It was moving as well as they were. It was coming towards them. Michael held his breath, afraid of what horrible monster it might be.

Truth be told. George did not feel much better. Not many people knew of the Pass, he could think of only five that did. Four of those six were his immediate family: Zedd, Tarralyn, Michael, and Richard. He of course knew of it, and that made five. The last person that was at all aware of the pass (to his knowledge) was Adie. The Bone Lady. The sorceress who made her home on the very edge of the Boundary and at the entrance of the Pass. Perhaps the Inn Keeper knew of it, but that still only equalled seven people. And that was seven people from **his **side of the Boundary. Seven people from Westland. He had heard of none from the side of the Midlands that was aware of this pass. It was only on a few rare maps, and most of the average people thought the Boundary was utterly impenetrable. He himself had been one of those until he had met Zedd and his daughter Tarralyn. He shook his head clearing those old thoughts.

He didn't like seeing the shadow of another person on the path of King's Port Pass. It unnerved him greatly. He could think of no one on the other side that would know of the Pass. The person, be it man or woman, could be a threat. And he was travelling with his young son. Oh spirits! Why had he agreed to let Michael tag along?

George kept moving on, keeping Michael safe behind him as he held his hand. Yet he was still utterly unnerved. The thought of any one coming towards them made him feel slightly ill to his stomach with worry. But, truth be told the other traveller could be thinking the exact same thing except concerning the sighting of George Cypher. Still, it was an uneasy way that they made towards each other.

Michael held his breath, but he was greatly curious, when there was only one last twist in the road before they would meet the other person. Since the figure could be seen growing closer and closer for the last many minutes, he had come to the conclusion, based on the proportions, that the other was in fact a man. A fairly tall and broadly built man. Than again, it very well could be the trick of the wavering light of the Boundary wall that made him think such. It could, he supposed, in truth be a woman.

But as both parties came around the last twist, Michael's suspicions were concreted. It was a man, tall, if only a little taller than his own father, and dressed in a black cloak whose hood was pulled up over his hair. The shadow of it shielded his face, yet the brilliant emerald glow of the Underworld shone down from the Boundary wall and illuminated the lower half of the man's face. But both companies had come to an impasse.

George Cypher had to know where the man was coming from, and how he knew of the pass. "Sir?"

The man, who seemed to be looking briefly down at Michael, turned his shadowed face back towards father of the child. Though he did not answer, his silence and the stare that George was sure he was receiving from the man, were acknowledgement enough.

Already around them the Grippers were starting to take notice of them. They had seen them, now that they had stopped moving. Before long they would be coming out to claim their victims, so George knew he had to make this short. He still was trying to be friendly. "I didn't think many people knew of this pass.", he laughed it off slightly, though he was still unnerved. Though, it could have been because he could see nothing but a shadow and no face beneath the raised hood. "How did you come to find it?"

The man in the black hood remained eerily silent for a long moment. Michael shivered, it bothered him. He also saw the Grippers moving ever closer. He knew well enough that they had to keep moving. And yet the man seemed to be completely unconcerned by the Underworld beasts that were approaching. Finally he lifted a hand and lowered his hood down. The soft wool immediately hugged itself around his neck and laid in a sea of soft folds. The man underneath was young, and handsome. His hair was long, longer than George's by a great deal, and yet not as long as Zedd's, Michael noticed. His eyes seemed to be blue, but that was common enough. He head a short clipped goatee and moustache. Looking at him, Michael couldn't help but stare. There was something familiar about him, but he couldn't put his finger on what it might be.

Darken Rahl took a moment before he answered. He casually ruffled out his hair, though the Grippers tried to come closer. He merely turned and looked down at them. They started to withdraw away from the D'Haran King and the father and son that stood with him.

George raised a brow slightly. Unsettled by that little revelation, but he kept it to himself. Perhaps the stupid things saw something else in the Boundary around them. But than again, with a quick glance around George confirmed his fears. There was nothing else around. At least nothing that _he _could see.

"I found the pass on a map. Since I have really nothing better to do, I thought that I might walk it and see Westland.", Darken spoke with ever the same arrogant touch. Yet the words came with a strange accent; they fit funny in his mouth. He had learned the common tongue of the Three Territories, yes. But the last time he had actually spoken it was when Tarralyn had been in his care. Since then he had been speaking D'Haran, as it was the tongue of his Kingdom, and High D'Haran when speaking with his Generals in private, or the Mord'Sith. The highest ranking of soldiers, and the Mord'Sith alone knew the language of the D'Haran Royals. He spoke High D'Haran only when giving secret orders. But it still affected the way he pronounced the common tongue words.

"You sound funny.", Michael, ever the child, was terribly blunt.

Darken's lips pursed and his brows knit while his eyes widened, looking down at the child with outright shock and anger.

"Michael!", George could only gasp in shock as he looked down at his son. "You don't say things like that!", he quickly lifted his eyes and face back to the dark haired man in front of him. "Sir I apologize."

Darken continued to glare harshly down at the boy for many long moments. But, after a time, his gaze softened and he smiled. He laughed, almost forcedly. "Don't worry about it. I have a young daughter at home. She does much the same with people she does not know.", but his eyes turned cold once again and his voice turned harsh (even if it sounded odd to the boy), "But children should learn their manners, else their fathers might fulfill their right to cut out their tongues."

George flinched slightly, shocked at the cruel statement. But, in a way, he supposed that the other man was right. Perhaps he had not meant literally removing the tongue, but instead not allowing the child to talk until they had learned their manners. Yes, perhaps.

Clearly Rahl had meant the very words that he had spoke, as he had spoken them.

Michael shuddered and looked up at the dark haired man with eyes full of fear. "I'm sorry Sir."

Darken smirked a little, it was a wicked little expression. "Don't worry. **I **am not your father.", he turned his face back to George, whom he had to glance down upon ever so slightly. "Where abouts in Westland does this pass emerge?", better to know where the hell he was in farmland than to just wander aimlessly.

George looked into Darken's eyes a moment; his own irises flashing back and forth between the D'Haran King's wintry ones. He had no way of knowing who, or what, Darken was. All he knew was that this man made him uncomfortable. And if telling him where the Pass emerged so that they might on their way all the faster alleviated that feeling, than he would tell him. "It comes out just outside of Southaven. It's about a half day's walk from the Boundary to the village"

Darken nodded a moment, as he lifted his right hand. He ran the fleshy pad of his middle finger over his bottom lip as he thought, drinking in the information offered to him. "Mmm alright…. Thank…", it was difficult for him to say it, but he knew it had to be said. "Thank …. You."

George smiled gently, trying to get the uneasiness to pass. "You're welcome. Anything I need to know about the way towards the Midlands?"

"Hmm?", Darken lowered his hand as his eyes shifted. Turning their gaze to that of the man that stood before him with his son. "Oh. Yes, there are Heart Hounds on the prowl. They don't seem to be following orders, and just hunting at random. Watch out for your son."

George Cypher paled completely. Heart Hounds. Everything that he had not wanted to tell his child about. Everything that he had hoped would not happen. Why, oh why, Creator, was this happening?

Darken was quickly over his minor daze. "Anyway. Good evening.", he nodded his head towards George and lifted his hands, gripping the sides of his hood. He lifted it high once more and covered himself again in the dark shadows that the deathly light of the Underworld cast. He easily stepped around the man and the child who seemed frozen in place.

Michael was terrified for two reasons. The first was that the man had threatened (at least it seemed so), to cut his tongue out. And he had seen the flash of blade on the dark haired man's belt along with another strange rod-like weapon. He would not have put it passed the man either. Yet there as still something so familiar about him. The second reason was because said man had mentioned something called _Heart Hounds_. He knew that those sounds had not been just wolves. The shiver ran down his spine quickly. "Papa? What are Heart Hounds?"

George turned his eyes down upon the young boy as they continued to stand still on the path. Around them the Grippers were starting to amass once more. They would need to get moving before the vile little creatures managed to get a hold of one of them, or the other. They could not risk the pain and the horror that would come with that. Yet Heart Hounds were no better.

His father sighed and ruffled out his own greying hair for a moment. "Well… they are like wolves, but they are bigger. Heart Hounds are the servants of the Keeper. They, like all other Underworld creatures, live in the Boundary."

That was bad enough to hear. Anything that was the servant of the Keeper could not be at all good. But what disturbed him even more was their name. "Why are they called HEART Hounds?"

George stared at him for a moment. He wondered if he should tell the boy. But the realization that the child would learn either way was soon in his mind. Rather the boy learn by his words, than by seeing a Hound take him, George, to his death. But he still sighed, it was a horrible thing to tell anyone, yet alone a child. "Because they go straight for the heart. That is how they kill. The heart is their meal."

Michael shuddered violently. Suddenly he no longer wanted to see the Midlands. He just wanted to go home and hide in his safe bed.

OoO.

Southaven. The last major stop when travelling south in Westland. Whatever lay further to the south of the town before reaching the shores of the sea was entirely unimportant. Likely, the other villages were little more than a few houses settled together against the rain and the winds. But Southaven was located half a day's walk from the edge of the Boundary, and seemed to be a hub for the ramshackle: both men and building.

Southaven was a brooding and roosting place for all those that claimed a less than honest life. It was a haven for the criminal element; thieves and rebels alike took their refuge within it's boarders. The town itself was not much to write home about; the buildings were all decrepit and bare of all colour. Whether the paint had been stripped away by years of exposure to the elements, or if they had ever at all been painted, one could not tell. There were those that had tin sheeting that repaired the gaping holes in the roofs, and in the rain they hummed like a steady drumbeat. In the center of town, sitting along the old crooked road, were two pathetic and seemingly decaying buildings. They seemed the lean and bend in accordance to each other, as though they were pieces of the same broken object. Two puzzle pieced laid out before each other. The first of the two buildings was a supply store, full of grains, feed for whatever animals the peoples might own and raise, as well as all the gear one would need for travelling. The other building which lay beside the first sported a crudely crafted sign marking it as an Inn. But beyond the sign the building bore no name; no fanciful moniker such as _The Flying Buffoon, _or the like. The supply store and the inn were owned by the same man, the Inn Keeper.

Darken kept his hood high as he walked along the footpath from the Boundary to Southaven. It was likely a craggy branch-off from Hawker's Trail. But it was cold, the air here was much heavier than it had been in D'Hara. In D'Hara there had still be summer conditions; yet here, just north of the sea in Westland, the air was cold. It was dense. By the looks of the trees the fall had already come. The sky was dark, ranging between tones of gray and black. The clouds were full of rain, and did not think twice for letting it fall.

Since he had emerged from King's Port Pass it had been the same; the rain had fallen at a steady pace all day. The entire sky as far as he could see, horizon to horizon, was a mottled mass of gray and black. It looked to be a fairly solid sky; a rain that would last for the entire day and most of the night. And such it had. He had finally emerged from the Boundary come nine o'clock the morning after he had encountered George and Michael Cypher in the last (or in their case the beginning stages) of the breach in the wall. He had taken his time walking towards the town; Southaven he knew would obviously be still standing no matter what time he might enter it.

He had been right. The sun had set and the night had risen hours passed. The rain was still pouring just as heavily as it had when he emerged into the unguarded territory of Westland that morning. By now his black woollen cloak was heavily saturated with the pouring rain. He felt, and looked, as though he had been tossed into the Drun River. Under his hood, his hair lay flat against his head, and stuck to the sides of his face. The water ran out of it just as it fell from the sky. His cotton skirt clung to his breast as tightly as it could go without being as a second skin. Without being as the Mord'Sith leathers had been against his figure. The suede of his breeches had been all but ruined by the water that had driven against him as he walked. The hides would be forever blotched now. Not that he cared. The boots too would need to be treated with Neatsfoot oil to keep them soft and supple, else the rain and the mud that he had walked through would ruin it and stiffen the leather. But that could be bought in Southaven he supposed. He shuddered slightly to himself as he pulled the sopping wet mantle closer against his body, trying to trap and keep any warmth that he could.

Southaven slowly came into sight; but what it was on the horizon was a sad, gray, little town where few lights were flickering. Even at this time of the night. Though he kept no sort of watch on his person, nor could he read the stars and the moon through the clouds enshrouding the sky, Darken did not suppose that it was later than ten o'clock in the evening. He knew he had been walking long, but he had been keeping a less than quick pace. The sun, he knew, had set roughly around eight o'clock, and by the feel of it, it had been roughly two hours hence.

The road was less road than it was mud. It was thick where the wheels of carts drawn by heavy Shire Horses had carved their way through the earth and cut long trenches. The consistency of the earth was closer to a cream soup than it was a compacted walking surface. It further stained the hidden King's boots. Glancing down, Darken lifted his booted foot as he bent his knee. Holding himself in just such a way that he could view the bottom of his foot without falling over to the right side. He sighed angrily and muttered a few choice High D'Haran words. He hated the poor people. No such mud and filth would be allowed in D'Hara, never. He had ordered that when the rain poured so foully that the people of the villages through saw dust or gravel or some other such component into the roads so that it may hold. Just in case he felt the sudden need to visit them. But than again, he hardly left the Peoples Palace for all the work he was doing. In a way this should have been considered a _vacation _of sorts, yet all it did was anger him further and keep him in a constant state of bitterness as opposed to relaxing him. Perhaps when he reached Hartland (where he had last seen the Tracer Cloud before all this rain had set in) he could relax. Oh yes, perhaps once he had found Tarralyn and had once again been in her bed he would be relaxed. Though he somewhat doubted that even a Mord'Sith could alleviate the frustration and anger that coursed through his body along with his blood. He doubted very much that he would ever truly feel warm again. It seemed as though ice crystals had in fact formed in his blood and they flowed along keeping the chill in his body. He had never been this cold, not even when he had travelled to give grain stores to the people of D'Hara the winter before he himself had been made into a male Mord'Sith. Not even during the breaking where he hung naked before the Mord'Sith. Nothing had made him so cold as his journey from the Peoples Palace west here to Westland. It would be a miracle if he ever properly felt his extremities again.

Darken shuddered further with the cold as he made his way through the open gates of the miserable little town. Southaven was no better, even if it had been in the sunlight, than the rest of the weather that had surrounded him all day. In fact, even if he had been warm and in the best of spirits, gaily skipping away with a song on his breath, as he travelled the sight of the town would have drained all cheer from his being. All it did now, was further the feeling of resentment that the woman he was hunting would ever have left the Peoples Palace in the first place. He did not know what the fuel for her selfish act was, but he knew that it was causing him this discomfort. This feeling of wretched coldness that even magic could not banish. He somehow doubted that even the inn that awaited down the street with it's flickering lamps could turn the chill in his bones away. He felt that it was with him now forever for sure. Briefly he considered lifting the ban on the use of fire in his Kingdom, if only so that the other people, both Nobel and Serf alike, would never have to feel this desolate feeling ever again. But that was a small sliver of the man he used to be shining through, and it didn't last long. What should _he _care if there were other people cold and freezing to death? Only he, the King, mattered. If he was comfortable than it didn't matter what the serfs were feeling. As for the Nobles, truly most of them lived within the walls of the marble city that was the Peoples Palace.

The door of the inn creaked dangerously as Darken laid his palm upon its center and eased it open. It swung lopsidedly in to the left as he laid the barest pressure against the aged timbers. The door revealed a dark and grimy inn that was bathed in a yellow, urine-stained, light that flickered from the few candles strewn about the interior. His eyes burned slightly under the hood at the taste of proper light that they were then staved of. But, by the looks of the inn, he did not want to see more of it.

The Southaven inn was full of seedy looking customers as Darken glanced about. His cold blue eyes were shielded away from the world by the black hood of the cloak; the tails of the fabric he had twisted and tossed about his bare throat to keep whatever warmth he could retain. It was early autumn, but it felt like the midst of a deep winter to him. Water dripped from the wool as he stepped into the inn deliberately slow.

Eyes lifted from their tankards of ale and mead in order to turn towards the stranger that had just entered their midst. And a stranger he was, dressed in a black cloak. No one wore black, black was the sign of Death. For all they knew he was a messenger of the Nameless One. A shiver ran down a few spines, but whether it was from the thought of why he might be donning a black cloak, or the draft that his entrance had brought sweeping through the Inn they did not know. Others looked upon him with contempt, thinking him to be a lawman of sorts. And in truth, of sorts, that was what he was. He was a King in his land, the highest authority their beyond the reach of the Mother Confessor on her throne in Aydindril. But none here could know that. Other men merely murmured to themselves and their companions that strangers were not welcome in Southaven. And yet they did nothing more than whisper to themselves. They were not going to be foolish enough to tell the newcomer such things. They might have been criminals, and hardened ones, but they knew better than to bring too much attention to themselves.

Darken raised a wet, sun kissed, hand from the folds of the wet wool and lowered his hood slowly as he looked around. He met the eyes of every man and crumbling woman that saw fit to stare at him. Each in their turn cowered and looked away from the wintry eyes of the D'Haran King.

The Inn keeper stood behind the counter at the bar. His head was shaved, as though to hide the fact that he was balding. But nothing made the state of his scalp all the more obvious, whether he realized it or not. Bill was a good man, but making his home in Southaven made many think ill of him. They assumed him to be yet another crook in a town full of minor villains. Bill looked on towards the man who stood currently with his back to him. He was leisurely wiping clean a dirty glass tankard that had been left on the counter haphazardly by a drunkard that had wandered out not long before. Bill was a tall and stout man, who wore an awfully stained apron. It surely could never have been made of any white material, but must have always been a slight gray tone. Either way, it was horribly marked with all manner of things. Ranging from what appeared to be **blood **to candle wax, ale, and red wine. And any matter of things in between. His heavy black beard and the hair upon his arms was a stark contrast to his bald head and his horrid apron.

Bill kept cleaning the glass tankard in his slow and uninterested way. Though, beneath the expression of ennui, the man's mine was ticking loudly; the gears were turning. He had caught the brief sight of the dagger hiding, and the agiel when his newest patron walked through the doors. After a moment he cleared his throat and took a breath. "How can I help you, sir?"

Darken was leaning back against the counter; his hands were clasped to the right of himself, and his right elbow was resting on the countertop. His form was standing diagonally, and braced by one bent knee, and his elbow upon the tabletop. He turned his eyes back to the right first; the icy irises moving to look at what little of the Inn Keeper that he could see from his place. It gave his features a nasty evil appearance in the brief moment before he turned his head to match his eyes. Darken looked back over his shoulder at the man for a very long moment. He remained silent the entire time, as people slowly started to return to the conversations, and arguments that they had been having before he entered the filthy little tavern. Finally lifted his arm from the counter and raised himself up as he turned his body to face toward the balding man. "I require a meal, and a room for the night."

Bill nodded gently as he set the tankard down. "Of course sir, if I could just get a name from yeh-", with the forthcoming reaction, one would have thought that his words had been a crime.

Darken's blue eyes narrowed harshly as he glared into Bill's brown eyes. "A name? Why would you need my name?"

Bill shook his head, trying to defuse the situation. "No no sir, you've got my meaning all wrong. I don't _need _a name, you are welcome to not give me one. However I am only asking so that I may better serve you, sir. So that only you may answer when I call for you. That's all."

The unfeeling blue eyes were still upon Bill (who was trying to act as though it did not bother him in the least). Darken was still wary of the question. He had managed to slip through the Midlands without being questioned as to his name. He did not think that it would be important at all. But than again, the people of the Midlands were so vast and varied that most people were ignored in totality. Westland was not as such. The people of Westland were lesser in number and in origins, and nearly everyone knew each other, or had at least heard the names in passing. Darken had never taken this side of the Third Territory into consideration. But than again only a week before the D'Haran King did not think that he would have to travel into Westland to find the woman he sought. He had thought that she would be in the Midlands. But, than again, Darken had never heard the news that the Boundary between the Midlands and Westland had been raised. He was unaware of it for as long as it had existed. He knew of the one between D'Hara and the central Territory, but he had never thought one existed further to the west. He knew the Boundary in D'Hara had been raised to contain his father. To contain **him ** like some sort of animal, and it ignited his anger every time he thought on it. One day he would bring them crashing down. Then the Great Wizard (whatever his name had been [Darken could not, for the life of him, remember the name of the Wizard that had murdered his father and so scarred him himself]) would see the power that had bred and multiplied behind the cage that he had raised against it. Then the old bastard would run in terror. Then there would be retribution for the crimes committed in the Great War against him. And then people would see who was _truly _great and good. He, Darken Rahl, not some pathetic excuse for a Wizard. Not some now decrepit old man. But Darken shook his head. He supposed he had better give the Inn Keeper a name of sorts. If it kept the man quiet. He cleared his throat a little, "Darren. Darren Wolf."

Bill stared at him a long moment, looking him over. But he, unlike a Confessor, could see no sign of untruth in Darken Rahl's face. And even if he had been able to see such an expression on any other man, he would not be able to read it from Rahl. Darken had had the training of a Mord'Sith. A training that left him void of all emotion but sudden psychosis and rage. Void of the ability to show any other emotion. Oh how Tarralyn would been horrified to see what had become of her lover. The proprietor simply nodded. "Strong name, strong family I imagine, no?", he glanced up towards Darken's face as he poured ale into the _nearly _clean tankard that he had set down once again upon the countertop.

Darken, or rather _Darren_, had glanced down toward the glass container while the man spoke. His nostril curled up and the corners of his mouth turned down a little as he furrowed his brows and looked on disgust. It was rather clear that the glass was still filthy from the last patron that had drank from it. He wouldn't have been entirely surprised if that man had also vomited back into the mug before passing out and being tossed out into the street. He thought he passed an unconscious man (or two…or five), in the muddy streets of Southaven. But his eyes lifted once more as he swiftly felt Bill's eyes upon his face. He steeled his expression and looked on a little indignantly. "What makes you say that?"

Bill shrugged lightly as he found a steel plate under the counter. "No real reason.", he turned and handed the plate to a woman servant who had been walking passed. She was filthy, covered in soot, cooking oil stains, and her hair was fraying down out from under the dirty white scarf she wore to keep it back, yet she was pretty enough. Darken smirked to himself when he saw her. She merely nodded to Bill and turned back the way she had come, taking the plate into the kitchen. To get a meal for the newest patron. Darken couldn't help but continue to smirk ever so slightly as he watched her walk away from the corner of his eye. She might prove to be a meal, of sorts, herself. Bill turned back to him once more as he wiped his hands off on the stained apron he wore. "Just that you're named for a strong animal."

"Mmm.", Darken made no real answer. He didn't quite know how to react to that. His name may not have truly been _Wolf, _but Rahl meant exactly the same thing as the other. He was already named for the wolf. He decided to shrug it off as he lifted the glass tankard (pushing back the disgust that he held), and brought it to his lips. He took a long draught of the dark golden liquid. It was strong, and burned slightly, but it was not unpleasant. Strong, perhaps, for someone more used to (and suited for) wine, but it warmed him against the cold that had entered his bones. It spread like a wave from his throat and down through all his body. Maybe he could ignore the soiled glass if it continued to warm him up the way it was.

Bill had noticed his lack of response, and his curiosity won out. His eyes flashed down to the soaking wet man's right thigh as he sat on a high stool. The blood leather holster attached to a tri-belt that was riveted into a softer black leather belt fastened around his waist was fairly obvious. But the weapon held in it was the real oddity. A blood red leather rod, about a foot or a foot and a half long, with a brass chain hanging from what appeared to be the handle. He was not stupid, the Boundary had gone up when he was a young boy, but he had been in the Midlands before that. He knew what the weapon was; it was an agiel. The symbol of D'Hara's most frightening force. The Mord'Sith: women trained in torture that could break a man and drive him to completely insanity in the matter of days. The Mord'Sith were answerable to only one man, their Master. **The **Master. The King of their dark and evil Kingdom. Darken Rahl. Bill had heard stories drift in through the Boundary of the horror that the King of that Realm had unleashed upon the little town of Brennidon. He shuddered slightly. Darren here had to be a brave and strong man if he wore an agiel. "And then there's _that_.", his eyes lingered upon the leather weapon on Darken's thigh.

Darken followed his eyes a moment and raised his brow slightly. But then his eyes narrowed. "And just what do you mean?"

Bill looked up, his brown eyes once again met the arctic eyes the man sitting across from him. He stared back as long as he could without blinking. "That, Sir, is an agiel. Only the Mord'Sith carry those. You must be fierce and brave if you managed to get one. Or else you're their Master, the King of D'Hara hidden away in the clothes of a serf.", Bill chuckled good-naturedly.

Darken only stared back darkly, in utter silence. But, after a long moment, he forced out laughter. Yet it suddenly stopped once again. "No. I took it from one of them.", he casually lifted his tankard once again and took another long swig from its depths.

Bill was intrigued. He crossed his arms a little and put them down on the other side of the counter. He leaned so he could listen to Darren, and look at him more properly. "Do you mind if I ask how?"

Darken stared back before his lips twisted into an evil little smirk. Clearly the man was not going to leave him be to have his peace and quiet and his thoughts. He might as well humour the man and give him what he wanted. He could embellish it all he wanted, the man would never know the difference. And if one day he ever realised who he had _truly _been talking to, he no one would ever believe him. And it wasn't like they would now. Very few here in Westland knew what a Mord'Sith even was, or an agiel for that matter. They did not know why such a thing should be feared. It looked only like a club of sorts to their eyes. But than again, what was wrong with telling them the very truth? "I was taken out of bed and away from my lover. There were some pointless orders about capturing me, I still don't _really _know why to this day."

Bill shrugged a little, "I guess that D'Haran bastard has to entertain himself somehow. I bet he enjoys it, if you know what I mean.", he winked slightly.

Darken growled lowly, and bared his teeth, but he quickly forced himself to brush it aside. Fine. Whatever this man wanted to think, what was the point in arguing. So he figured he might as well play along, "Ha. Yeah. But I heard even he had to face the Mord'Sith training. Anyway. I was taken from my bed, from my home, and carted away. For three weeks they beat me and tortured me while the cart clattered along the road to the Temple. When I got there, they cut my hair from me, saying I wasn't fit to wear it that long. Every day for seven months they tortured me. They were trying to _train _me."

His eyes had gone wide. "Seven months! By the spirits! How on earth did you last?"

"Hmm? Oh… I partitioned my mind. I just let them have a small part of my mind, and retained the rest so that I couldn't be broken. It's rather hard to explain."

Bill was frowning slightly. "I think I get what you mean. You protected yourself while answering to them."

"Mmm… essentially yes. Anyway, after seven months when they thought I was broken they had me kill a young girl that had I known. I did it, so that they would let me rest. Rest was a reward you see, if you did not do as they ask and earn it, than it was forbidden. So I thought that if I acted as though I was broken I might at least get a day of solitude from it. Solitude which is something often denied me wherever I find myself.", he emphasised the last statement, hoping Bill would understand that he did not in fact want to even talk to this man. But it seemed to go over the Inn Keeper's head entirely. So Darken merely took a breath and continued. "So while I was resting I broke loose and I ran. Bloody hard it was. And well, my Mistress, Evelyn, and her bitches caught me the next day. They dragged me back to their temple and started all over again. Eventually Evelyn did succeed, in a way. I've never been the same since. I lashed back at her, and killed her. I took her agiel; it only works for someone that it has been used against.", Darken looked down to his right thigh an easily put his hand upon the grip of the weapon, and though it brought him pain unimaginable, both physical and mental, the look never crossed his face beyond a slight dilation of his pupils. He tugged it loose of the holster and turned it over in his fingers, till the handle faced Bill. "Do you want to hold it?"

Bill's brown eyes widened and he jumped back slightly. His gaze was locked upon the weapon in the man's hand. He could _hear _the pain that it would bring. The bloody thing was singing. Singing! His stare returned back to Darren's eyes. "No!"

Darken continued to look at him calmly. His pupils were still dilated, but he showed no other reaction. The weapon had stopped singing now that the end most meant for the infliction of pain was held in his bare hand. "I promise you it will not, **cannot **harm you. You have to be touched with cruelty and wickedness behind the intention with it before it can harm you any more. To you right now it is nothing more than wood and leather, with a core bound to the King of D'Hara. Yet to me it is as holding a white hot brand which boils my blood and burns my flesh."

Bill looked down to the weapon once more. He wondered how the man could bare to hold it. "How… how can you stand to touch it if they did all that to you? If you kept yourself sane and turned against them? How can you hold something that reminds you of them?"

Darken continued to look back at Bill as he turned the agiel in his hand once more so that he was holding the butt of it. He turned it easily and slid it back into its place upon his thigh. "Because they didn't just torture me. They trained me to take pain. They trained me to be male Mord'Sith."

Bill shuddered violently. But the tension was broken when the pretty servant woman returned. She set the plate down for Darken gently. She bowed her head and held out her skirts in a quick curtsey. She had no way of knowing what she had interrupted. "I hope you enjoy your meal sir.", smiling gently she turned back to Bill for any more instructions. The Inn Keeper merely shook his head signalling she was free for the night. His eyes, however, caught the enflamed blood red welt upon Darken's palm as he lifted the fork from the counter. He shuddered.

Darken ate as much of the food as he could, without eating the slab of beef that was on the plate. Even the thought of it made him shudder, but he kept it to himself. The night was clearly getting late by the time he had finished. Bill was still at the counter, but was now organizing bottles more or less. He was waiting for Darken to finish the food, if he was waiting for anything. Most of the other drunkards had either passed out, gone to their rooms, or gone to their shabby, pathetic, little houses. Yet out of the corner of his eye he spotted the woman servant. She was watching him, trying to be discreet, as she cleaned tables for the evening. He smiled slightly, _"Perhaps she will be a better meal than this rot that I've been eating."_, he thought to himself.

Bill noticed that he had stopped eating, and took the plate silently. He knew now better than to question Darren any further. The man carried an agiel, and clearly did not do so just for appearance sake. He knew how to wield it. The thought was terrifying to say the least. He glanced to the meat left behind, but shrugged it off. It could be given to the dogs. But as he stepped into the back of the inn, he turned to look over his shoulder. "Sergine!"

The servant woman looked up from mopping up a table when she heard her name. "Yes Bill?"

"Show Darren to his room, will you?", Bill left the moment he finished his orders for the woman.

Sergine started to blush a little.

Darken could only smirk to himself.


End file.
